The Young Idealists
by Amnesic
Summary: Over ten years after finishing high school, Quinn returns to New York, haunted by a past that she can't quite escape. As her life tangles once more with those of Santana, Brittany and Rachel, they are each faced with the question: how far will you go to protect your family? Eventual Faberry with some darker themes in later chapters
1. Idealism

Chapter 1 - Idealism

As the image flickered to life on the screen of her laptop Rachel Berry couldn't help the smile that bloomed across her face. Despite the early hour (once upon a time she had been able to bounce out of bed before the crack of dawn) and despite the lack of caffeine (once upon a time she had been able to function in the morning without a shot of her special blend) she felt a surge of that special feeling ripple through her as the blonde's face came to life on the screen. It was a feeling that was laced with a guilty undertone. It was, as it always had been, only Q who had ever sparked that feeling within her.

'Can you hear me?' the doctor's lilting voice stuttered out of her speakers, distorted slightly by the huge distance between them.

'Loud and clear,' Rachel confirmed, her enthusiasm squashing down the familiar heavy ache that settled within her. She had long ago become accustomed to the feeling of her heart breaking, and the hazel eyes did it every time. Quinn's expressions had not changed, Rachel was always pleasantly surprised by that, though the blonde may hide it better, there was an excitement that mirrored her own radiating from her. Pleasant small talk dominated their conversation for the first few minutes, but all Rachel was really interested in was the nuances of the sun-kissed face that she hadn't seen in so long.

'Where are you?' Rachel asked finally, intrigued by the warm glow of the early night that surrounded the blonde. Though night fell at about six in the evening in Cambodia, so it was often dark when they spoke, the surroundings were not familiar.

'Jay's bar,' Quinn replied, reaching to pick up the small netbook she carried with her and carefully twirling it around to give Rachel a semi blurred view of the dimly lit bar and restaurant, bustling with people whose features were undefinable. 'Most of the rest of our party are up at the Foreign Correspondant's Club. But I promised Jay that I would help him practice his English tonight in exchange for some Angkor.'

'I can't believe you drink beer now,' Rachel wrinkled her nose in distaste and Quinn laughed.

'Safer than drinking the water,' she quipped, raising the frosty beer mug, 'and it's hardly alcoholic.'

There was a moment's pause in their conversation and the hazel eyes looked off to the side, to a place unknown to Rachel and she wondered what it would be like to be there beside her, all those many miles away in the clammy heat of a foreign country. To be back in that spot that had once been _her_ spot, the place that she would always rather possessively consider her own, to Quinn's left side.

'He play's you all the time in here,' Quinn's words sounded distant as she looked back towards the screen that lit up Rachel's face, the early morning light glossing over her in her expensive Manhatten apartment, a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice half visible on the table before her. Quinn felt a twang of regret as she thought of what could have been, of what they had missed together. 'Your debut album. Jay says that it puts the western tourists at ease or something… Just that one album on repeat over and over again.'

She didn't say how much it had hurt to hear it the first time that she had sat there, watching the geckos on the walls and hearing Rachel's voice, so distinctive even through the static of the old speakers. Her voice younger and more sincere than it was now. That night she had dreamt again of the brunette, in the clammy heat of the night, with the smell of moon tiger in the air. She had dreamt of Rachel, and of Lima, of the childhood that they had shared. That first love that never leaves you.

'I'm flattered,' Rachel smiled, that wide smile that was both self-mocking at this moment and gracious. 'Maybe I should send him over a copy of all the other albums to give you a break from just the one…'

'It would probably take a few years to reach here from New York,' Quinn replied, not entirely joking. To be honest, if it did get shipped, it probably would never reach the right place anyway. She swatted at a mosquito that landed briefly on her arm and waved the irritating thing away.

'I shall try anyway,' Rachel determined, 'I think that it is…'

In the background behind Rachel, Quinn could hear the call of another voice. Deeper, masculine. Quinn smiled in response as the brunette looked over her shoulder and called back to him. Smiling to cover the ire that always rose within her. It would always get to her, she knew that now.

'Adam?' Quinn asked blithely.

'No,' if anything Rachel seemed a little sheepish in her reply, 'Adam and I broke up a month or so ago. It's Tom. You remember him, he was my co-star in Les Miserables.'

'Of course,' Quinn kept that same soft smile. Of course she couldn't remember. Or maybe she did. It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter anymore who shared Rachel's bed, but of course it always did. They spoke fortnightly, without fail, but the lovers that came and went from the brunette's bed were a mystery to her.

'Tell me about him, Rach,' she urged gently, 'tell me about everything.'

Those were her lines in the theatre that she had crafted of their relationship. Quinn's lines. She always asked, each time they spoke, asked with that muted intensity and listened carefully to every word. And that same warm feeling rushed through Rachel as she spoke, not necessarily of the musical she was staring in, or of the stage, but of the silly things, the important things, her friends, her family, her feelings… the fears that she had only ever really shared with Quinn, the hopes that they had once nurtured together. And Quinn listened with that small smile and that steady gaze from far, far away, sipping at the icy beer that tasted of dirty water.

* * *

><p>'Shut the fucking door!' Rachel shouted over the cacophony of backstage chaos, 'do you live in a fucking barn?'<p>

She didn't really care who had stepped into the room but they had better turn and run away fast if they knew what was good for them. Pre-show was a stressful enough time as it was. Especially when it was Saturday night and the goddamn traffic had made her 20 minutes late arriving and her usual make-up artist, Sarah, had decided to contract viral plague in order to get the night off work and it had all put Rachel in a foul mood.

'Do you speak to everyone this way? Or just your friends?' the cool voice cut through the cloud of furious annoyance that hovered around Rachel and she glanced over her shoulder in surprise. She couldn't help the smile that spread across her features and she launched herself at the Latina with enthusiasm, encompassing her in a hug.

'I'm sorry I yelled,' she apologised sheepishly and Santana smirked. She had long ago accepted that being hugged by Rachel Berry was going to become an inevitable part of her interaction with the diva.

'The Rachel Berry I knew from high school would have berated you incessantly for your use of language, Missy,' she reminded the brunette who rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the mirror.

'How did you ever put up with me?' She asked, sweeping the make-up brush across a perfect brow.

'I think it had something to do with that fierce head cheerleader who protected you like a lion,' Santana quipped.

'Oh yes,' Rachel replied, though keeping up the jovial tone when it came to joking about Quinn was always a little strained, 'I think I remember her.'

Santana's eyes didn't waver as she watched Rachel prepare herself. Ten years down the line from High School and Rachel Berry was on her way to achieving everything that she had ever dreamed of. Her big smile and her big voice were equally famous, first on Broadway and then in LA. And now crowds flocked to her. Even the paps loved her. But Santana could see the fragility of that smile. She had known Rachel Berry for a long time, perhaps reluctantly at first, but now with the brutal loyalty that she reserved for her few true friends.

'I heard the gossip about the Hammerstein Ballroom,' Santana commented carefully, watching her friend closely, but there was nothing but a flicker of hesitation in her movements, 'I imagine your publicist is tearing her hair out.'

'That _is_ her job,' Rachel replied flippantly. And again there was that edge of her tone that was so un-Rachel, an almost bitter humour that didn't suit her. 'They tried to sit me next to Jenna Elfman. _Jenna Elfman_, Santana! Can you imagine having to sit through the whole runway show making small talk with that woman?'

'I don't even know who she is,' Santana said dryly. Rachel rolled her eyes dramatically.

'Well, I guess that I can't really blame you for that,' she said scathingly, 'she is pretty I suppose, but lacks any form of talent. And she's a Scientologist.'

'So you ripped up her seating card?' Santana surmised with a bemused expression.

'I ripped up mine as well,' the diva responded.

'And according to Entertainment News you ripped up about twenty people's cards before the manager tried to stop you.'

'I urged him to consider a free seating arrangement,' Rachel defended herself.

'The gossip columns call it a diva tantrum,' Santana replied. And she knew Rachel well enough to know that it probably was a form of tantrum. It was the latest in a long line of incidences that were starting to filter into the gossip columns, most of them funny, some of the less so.

'I didn't even know you read that shit, San,' Rachel successfully ignored the point.

'Brittany sends it to me,' the Latina replied lightly. Brittany sends her links to these terrible websites every day with little concerned messages about how closed-off Rachel is becoming, or how ridiculous her behaviour is getting, or how much the pressure must be building up and that they should do something, anything, about it. But Santana doesn't have all the answers when it comes to Rachel, she never did.

They both know who does. But saying it aloud is even more taboo than thinking it.

Brittany and Santana made it.

Quinn and Rachel did not.

'I need to talk to you after the show tonight,' Santana pressed on, an uncomfortable knot twisting within her. Twisting with the same unresolved tension that she has been trying to overcome all day.

'It's the Saturday night show, Santana, I can't…' Rachel tried to protest. The cast went out afterwards on Saturdays, and she needed to reconnect with Tom. This morning had been a blip. A blemish in what had so far been an enjoyable start to their relationship and she knew that she needed to reconnect with him, push all thoughts of the hazel-eyed blonde from her mind and seduce the man who shared her bed.

'It's important, Rachel,' San re-iterated, 'Brittany's out and… and I need to talk to you alone.'

'What's this about?' Rachel asked, frowning at the seriousness of Santana's tone. But at that point the 10 minute alarm started and Rachel knew it was her cue to go. She gave the Latina a sharp look as she gathered herself together. 'Fine. But it had better be important.'

* * *

><p>'Rachel! Rachel! <em>Rachel!<em>' They chanted her name and squealed as she emerged from the backstage doors of the theatre. Security guards held back the lines with stony faces and she felt a weariness seep through her, that bone deep exhaustion, as she tried to plaster that same bright smile across her face. When she had landed her first roles on Broadway this had almost never happened, a small crowd at best of die-hard fans would gather and she would treasure each and every one. That had all changed with the launch of the first album, the one that had secured her stardom and made her a household name. These days it was hard to go anywhere without getting recognised in New York. And to think that she had thought that that was something that she had once wanted!

Santana leaned up against her dark car, watching the diva sign a few autographs, interact rather wearily with the crowd. They pulled and they pulled and they pulled at her, and all San could really think was that Tom should be beside her, a stoic pillar of support to the little diva who looked so fragile and small. But the doofus boyfriend was nowhere to be seen. As the minutes dragged on, Santana lost her limited patience and launched herself forwards into the crowd to pull Rachel out to her car.

'I could have handled that,' the diva huffed as Santana pressed the central locking on the doors before some crazed fan tried to rip a door off the hinges.

'Whatever.'

She was in no mood to argue with the girl. They drove in silence out to the suburbs, the lights of the city fading behind them into darkness.

'I'm tired, Santana,' Rachel stated finally, 'what is this about?'

The dark eyes cut to hers in the darkness as they finally pulled into the driveway. She offered no explanation. It was hard to summarise something of such complexity.

'It's easier to just… show you,' the Latina murmured, leading the way into the beautiful suburban house that she shared with her blonde wife. Rachel followed her reluctantly, her frustration starting to simmer beneath the surface. Santana breezed into the large kitchen, flicking on the lights as she went.

'Did they behave?' Santana asked curtly as the yawning babysitter came into view. She was never very good with people who weren't her close friends or family.

'Carlos was a little monster, but your wife put him to bed before she left…' the babysitter started, and Rachel could care less about the domestic details of her friends' lives. She sauntered to the fridge and found a cooling bottle of white wine. She smirked to herself. Santana only really liked to drink red. Rachel took the bottle deliberately and popped the cork, pouring herself a generous glass.

The old buzz of the show had not hit her tonight. Maybe just for a moment, as the applause reached a crescendo, but now… now it just felt hollow. It felt hollow when surrounded by domestic bliss, with family portraits and the scrambled chaos of a life together, a family together that Brittany and Santana had built.

'Do you remember that month last Spring when Britt and I were barely talking?' Santana's voice was flat as she re-entered the kitchen. Rachel glanced up at her with the cool feeling of dread settling within her belly.

'Of course,' she uttered softly. It had been a dark time for all three of them, and Rachel had never understood the reason why.

'I never told you what it was about… I never told anybody,' Santana admitted. She took a glass down from the shelf and looked at the white wine with distaste before pouring herself a glass.

'You got through it,' Rachel stated with a shrug. 'Together, you worked it out.'

'No we didn't. We didn't work it out,' Santana sighed deeply. 'Sure, we had our heads metaphorically slammed together by a fierce mutual acquaintance of ours who threatened us both with dire consequences if we didn't figure it out. But we never came to an agreement.'

Rachel couldn't help but smirk at that image. Of course, even thousands of miles away, Quinn exerted her influence. It was reassuring, in a way, that though many things had changed, there were some fundamentals that did not.

'I always just assumed that it was about Cambodia,' Rachel said evenly, trying to draw the uncharacteristically hesitant Latina out. It wasn't just Santana who had felt the sting when Brittany had announced her departure to South East Asia the Christmas before, leaving her wife and her children for weeks to go to the country that had already stolen the other blonde so dear to their hearts.

'She always promised that she would come back,' Santana stated.

'So did Quinn,' Rachel replied sharply. Santana's eyes hardened for a moment. She wasn't sure when it had happened, if it had been when the weeks turned into months or when the months turned into a year, into more than a year, that she had started thinking of Quinn _living_ there rather than working there. She had held a bitterness about it for a long time, a fury that smouldered at her best friend, it felt akin to betrayal. But then when Brittany had returned, with so much footage, so many images of that beautiful and broken country and the sound of Quinn's voice speaking in that soft way that only occurred when she was sharing her fears in the darkness, Santana had started to understand.

'Quinn had nothing to come back to,' she said pointedly and Rachel glared at her.

'And whose fault was that?' she snapped. No ones. Or maybe it was because of both of them. It was years since high school, and still the wound festered. She had assumed, as they all had assumed, that teenage romance could not last in the face of growing up. That innocent first love would be overcome by bigger and bolder loves, by experiences, and successes. Quinn had always loved Rachel too much. And Rachel was too stubborn to ever let the idea of Quinn go.

'I didn't want to talk about this,' Santana attempted to get them back on track.

'So, what did you want to talk about?' Rachel asked in that waspish tone that made Santana want to slap her. It was lucky they had the kitchen island separating them.

'Brittany.'

Santana took a long swig of her wine before continuing. Placing her hands flat on the cool kitchen surface. It was certainly not the most comfortable place to be having this conversation, but then it was an uncomfortable conversation to have.

'When she pitched the idea for the Cambodia documentary to the studio, it wasn't very well received… They told her that no one in the US cares about little South East Asian countries that are struggling to survive. We are the epitome of capitalism – if we cared about the underdog, we wouldn't be American…'

Rachel had to shrug her agreement at that. Most New Yorkers she knew didn't give a shit about anyone outside of New York, let alone outside of the US. But Brittany had always had an optimism about the better nature of people. And at times it had worked out. Her documentary about the dying dolphins had garnered unforeseen popularity. The one about peanut butter, less so. There was something about seeing the world through Brittany's eyes which was fascinating.

'But she went anyway,' Santana continued, 'with that crappy little handheld video camera and a shitload of determination.'

'I didn't think that anything ever came out of it,' Rachel replied. Brittany had returned, tanned and frustrated six weeks later, with lots of footage of a broken country and no documentary. And then Santana and she had had their biggest breakdown in years.

'Brittany didn't want you to think anything ever came out of it,' Santana countered. 'The truth is she has been working on it ever since. She changed the concept whilst she was out there, and the studio did a one-eighty when they saw the prelims. This isn't just a television documentary, like the others, they want this on the big screen, the whole big deal… they think it has so much appeal that it will actually make them money.'

'Well that's fantastic,' Rachel exclaimed, a beaming smile blooming across her face at her friend's success. 'I don't see what the problem is, Santana…'

'The problem is,' San spelt out quietly, 'that it is not a documentary about a broken country. It is a documentary about a broken person _in_ a broken country. It's a documentary about Quinn.'

* * *

><p>Santana heard the sniffle from the other side of the couch and closed her eyes against it. The bottle of wine was empty on the coffee table now, and she was nursing another tumbler of bourbon. Brittany had spent months holed up in this room, editing and re-editing the clips she had brought back. There were a number of flat screens that she would sit in front of, watching and re-watching the footage she had gathered, cutting and reorganising it, playing with the sound. Santana had never understood really what it was that got Brittany to work her magic. At times she would be holed up here for weeks on end, only coming out for meals and bedtime stories, and the occasional protest or rally that she wanted to attend. Brittany was big on attending rallys. Carlos was allowed to play in here, behind the couch if he didn't disturb her too much. And he was always so happy to be spending time around his blonde mommy that he tended to behave himself.<p>

Apart from the work station there was also a big flat screen in the room, in front of the small couch. Far enough away to make it a reasonable distance to view. This was where Rachel and Santana had been sitting for the last hour, watching the final cut of the documentary that had almost torn Santana's marriage apart.

On the big screen in Brittany's editing room Quinn glanced up at them, hazel eyes hard and empty. Santana knew that look, and it cut through her every time. The wailing and screaming of the chaos around the blonde just highlighted her stillness. It was part of the footage that Brittany had shot of the water festival tragedy, when thousands of the dead and injured, carried on motos and tuk-tuks had swarmed to the small hospital that Quinn had helped to build. The young doctor, pale in her dusty blue scrubs, was already smattered with blood that was not her own as she stood outside the hospital, triaging the injured as they arrived, a dead man at her feet.

'Turn it off, Britt,' Quinn's English words somehow cut through the carnage and with a painful slowness the camera arc descended. It cut to the footage of the aftermath, of the hospital littered with the bodies of the injured, the floors entirely covered with people, children looking up wide-eyed at the camera. Brittany's voice came over the speakers.

'Why do you do it?' She asked. The camera still cutting through ward after ward of the Cambodian patients.

'When I first came here,' Quinn's voice replied thoughtfully, with that honest rawness she reserved only for her closest friends, 'I was passionate and idealistic. I wanted to make a difference to these people's lives. I wanted to be worth something… As doctors we are very privileged, we have a lot to give. You give of your skills, you give of your time, and when there is nothing left you can do, you give of your person. It will never be enough… but at least it's something.'

The film paused on the screen and Santana blinked up at it, wondering why it had stopped.

Both she and Rachel jumped as another figure cleared their throat behind them. Santana swung around to see Brittany hovering in the doorway of her haven, leaning against the frame, her jacket still on. Blue eyes flicked accusingly to her wife and Santana tightened her jaw.

'I went to Cambodia to try to get her to come home,' Brittany spoke softly, her eyes on Rachel who still had tear tracks down her cheeks, 'but all I found were reasons for her to stay there.'

'You can't publish this,' Rachel stated shakily, gesturing to the screen. 'It is beautiful and it is heart-wrenching, but you cannot broadcast it to the world, Brittany. She will never forgive you.'

That accusing blue gaze shot back to Santana again.

'You thought that you would bring Rachel here to argue your corner, San? Very mature.'

'Just because she agrees with me doesn't mean I brought her here to argue my side,' Santana replied.

'This will publicise the plight over there. The public latches on to individual stories, to inspirational figures. This documentary is groundbreaking…'

'She won't care if it is groundbreaking,' Rachel stated vehemently, 'she will _hate_ you for it. You can't do this to her. You just can't, Brittany.'

'It's the most beautiful thing that I have ever made,' Brittany replied stoically. 'They say it is award-worthy…'

'It's her life. _Her_ life.'

'She let me film it, for godsakes,' Brittany objected.

'Whilst thinking that it was for your personal collection,' Santana replied, 'You have been filming everything since senior year. We almost forgot what your face looked like because you had that stupid camera stuck to your eye the whole time!'

'When will you ever learn not to call me stupid?' Brittany seethed, throwing her bag onto the floor.

'I'm not calling you stupid,' Santana returned, 'but I think that you are making a big mistake, Britt. She is my closest friend and even I feel like I am violating her privacy by watching this. She is so… honest. And vulnerable. Quinn would rather die than let anyone see this side of her.'

The blonde dancer pursed her lips, and for a moment, Rachel thought that she was going to agree with them, give in, see reason. Instead she shrugged her shoulders once.

'Well, it's too late,' Brittany replied bluntly. 'I've already signed it away.'

'Then you goddamn get it back!' Rachel shouted, suddenly launching herself to her feet. 'You can't do this to her. You can't.'

Her rant was making less impression on Brittany than a tantrum from Carlos did.

'If you do this, I will never speak to you again, Brittany,' Rachel threatened, the wine and the emotional punch of the footage making her voice raw, broken, 'I will never speak to you again.'

The tall blonde just shook her head, walking back out into the corridor of their home, heading towards the bedroom.

'Little drama queen,' Santana murmured to herself, being uncharacteristically receptive as Rachel crumpled back down into her arms and started to sob. Some may say that being a mother had softened Santana Lopez, but then most people had not met Carlos, who was, in Santana's opinion, the devil-incarnate. She stroked the brunette's hair as her tears slowed and wondered whether it was the arguement with Brittany or the hour long pain of watching Quinn that had the girl knotted up.

'She can't do this...' Rachel murmured earnestly. The Latina closed her eyes. She had almost lost her marriage arguing this point.

'All I can hope is that Quinn never finds out.' Santana sighs, 'it would kill her.'

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading ;-)<strong>


	2. Family

**Thank you for the reviews - it is refreshing to be writing something new and having people speculate about it - especially as the concept is still just developing.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 2 - Family<span>

Sunlight from the early afternoon cut through the white muslin of the open windows and Quinn narrowed her eyes at it as she stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her. It was perhaps a luxury she shouldn't indulge, but she couldn't bear to come back from the slums and not shower before entering the hospital. Infectious control and cleanliness notwithstanding she just needed to get the smell of garbage out of her skin and her hair. She barely paused in her movements as her gaze fell upon the woman lying across her bed. A woman who certainly hadn't been there when she had stepped into the shower not ten minutes before.

'I thought you were meant to be running the Toul Chey clinic this afternoon?' she stated, her tone revealing nothing of her thoughts.

'I swapped with Evan,' Jessica's Australian accent drawled, her eyes unashamedly grazing over the blonde's body as she dropped the towel and picked out her underwear from a draw. 'He wanted to see what the clinic was like up there, so I'm covering the wards down here for him.'

'That's going to be a shock for him,' Quinn muttered. Evan was one of their latest enthusiastic interns who she had yet to make up her mind about. At least his enthusiasm perhaps made up for his lack of common sense. Though a lack of common sense in one of Phnom Penh's notorious slums was not going to do him much good. 'He'd better come back in one piece, Jess.'

'Nous will look after him,' Jessica looked unconcerned. Quinn raised an eyebrow sceptically.

'If he doesn't, I will have your ass, Jessica Roberts,' Quinn stated with a meaningful look over her shoulder. The brunette laughed.

'You know that you can have my ass whenever you want,' Jess seemed unfazed by the threat. 'Speaking of which… don't you have time to come to bed?'

Quinn smirked.

'As a matter of fact, I don't,' she replied, pulling on her jeans. 'And neither do you if you are covering my wards. I'm starting my rounds in five minutes and we have to be done in an hour because I have a conference call. So stop lounging around on my bed and go get started.'

Though the Aussie rolled her eyes, she was quick to hop off the bed and make her way to the door.

'I love it when you pretend to be a bitch,' she quipped as she passed the blonde doctor. The hazel eyes cut to her.

'I'm not pretending,' Quinn replied.

* * *

><p>A golden glow was falling across the hospital when Quinn finished hours later. She paused at the entrance to the compound and looked at the concrete building that held so much of her hope, and took off her aviators with a quirk of her lips. It was an ugly set of buildings, as most hospitals are actually, but to Quinn it was beautiful. From its initial conception she had been there with the team. From physically lifting the building blocks. Gathering water to mix the cement. Bullying, cajoling and begging for supplies. Working with patients into the middle of the night, treating them as best she could with the little that she had. By candlelight when the electricity cut out. Luckily much of the equipment they had was not sophisticated enough to rely on electricity – there were not the facilities for an intensive care unit or even such things as ventilators, or incubators. Plain film radiographs had been the height of their imaging until an Australian firm had given them the gift of a portable ultrasound, which to Quinn, at the time, had been a revelation. For a month she had used it on almost everyone, just to refresh her skills and remember the tricks of echogenicity.<p>

'Have a drink with me, bitch,' the Aussie drawl snapped her out of her reverie, and her eyes met with the light green. The compound was quiet, or as quiet as the hospital could be. The lights still flickered in the two operating theatres that they had, the surgeons working on some elective cases from Toul Chey – one was a burns victim, if Quinn recalled correctly, who had had his arms fused to his body by the contracting scar tissue, the other a boy who had had his arm mangled in a factory machine.

'I have a Skype call that I'm waiting for,' she replied, thinking of Rachel and their fortnightly date. Somehow she marked the time through notches of Rachel. Two weeks already. Two weeks to go. It was as though every two weeks she was allowed to cross that mystical bridge back into the other world from which she came. A world from which she often felt she was in a self-imposed exile. Rachel Berry and her famous life. Her new, clean apartment in Manhattan. Her vegan diet. Her Jacuzzi bubble bath and Coco Chanel. She often felt guilty for even thinking of it.

'Then we'll have a drink in my room,' Jess suggested, tugging at the young doctor persuasively. And for once, Quinn let herself be led. As they walked, a couple of the children who also lived on the compound ran up to her, tugging on her shirt to get her attention and pull them to where they had been working on painting murals on the cold concrete walls.

'Americana, Americana,' one of them called with a smile, taking on the nickname they all had for the blonde as they gestured proudly towards the colourful mural. She and Jess made appropriately impressed noises as the children jabbered in Khmer.

'They really love you here,' Jess murmured to her as she continued to usher Quinn towards her room, bemused that the reserved American could transform into an enthused and playful version of herself as soon as the children appeared.

'These kids have been here from the beginning,' Quinn replied, somewhat coolly, 'and so have I. We are family.'

Two hours later, Jess's netbook sat opened on the dresser, logged on to Quinn's Skype account, ready but forgotten. Rachel had never come online. Quinn leaned out of the window, resting her elbows on the sun-soaked wood as she drank from the cold bottle of beer. Night had fallen and the moon hung in a sharp crescent upon the horizon.

'So tell me,' she started, in those same thoughtful tones, 'what are you running away from, Jess?'

The pretty brunette propped herself up against the headboard of the double bed, wrapping the white sheet about her naked body. That pleasant ache of rough sex kneading into her muscles.

'What makes you say that I'm running away from something?' the girl asked with some amusement and Quinn turned around, that same smirk twisting at the corners of her lips.

'Because everyone is who comes out here,' she replied almost affectionately, 'they come here looking for redemption, or looking for adventure, or looking for something to help them heal. People whose lives have run smoothly do not come to Phnom Penh.'

'I…' Jess shrugged a shoulder, swallowing the words that she could not speak. She glanced away from that penetrating gaze.

'You don't have to tell me now,' Quinn said softly. 'But it is important to recognise that the reasons that you are here are not always just the reasons that you _think_ that you are here.'

'So, what are _you_ running away from then?' Jessica countered, green eyes flashing in the fading light. Quinn smiled. She ran a hand through her short blonde hair, an attractive post-orgasmic mess.

'At first it was guilt,' she replied, surprising Jess with the openness of her answer, before taking another swig of the beer and turning once more to look out at the Cambodian night. 'I did something terrible, for which I thought that I would never forgive myself.'

The Aussie opened her mouth to speak, before thinking better of it and letting the blonde continue.

'But now I think that what I am really running from is myself. And that is a much harder person to outrun.'

* * *

><p>Rachel squinted her eyes at the morning sun and rolled over to bury her head beneath her pillow. Her eyes felt crusty with the make-up that she had yet to remove, the throbbing in her temple reminding her of just how much she had overindulged last night, and her mouth tasted as though something had died in it.<p>

'Gross,' she murmured into the pillow. Wondering quite how the night had ended. Her body ached, and not just in the way that it ached after dancing the night away, or even after sex. It ached in a way that made her feel as though she had gone three rounds with Tyson. She rolled over, only to bump into the solid wall of another body.

'Fuck,' she groaned as she cranked open one eye. Tom snorted softly in his sleep and Rachel wrinkled her nose at the manly smell of his body. She had never liked the smell of male sweat, it was just one of those things. You would think that after growing up in a household run by two dads she would be okay with it – but nothing could be further from the truth, even as a child she had had sneezing fits around her daddy whenever he had been out for a run.

She reached for her phone and felt a wave of guilt crash over her as she read the messages.

_Berry! You stood me up! – Q_

Followed swiftly by another:

_As you are usually notoriously punctual I realise that maybe I should extend concern first – are you ok? Then irritation – you stood me up! – Q_

_In case that message failed to imply it – I want an explanation. – Q _

With the time difference between them as it was, Rachel knew that it must be the early hours of the morning in Cambodia by now. Explanations would have to wait. As though she could even explain herself, she couldn't remember much of the night before herself.

She half-rolled, half fell out of bed. Walking butt-naked to the bathroom and cranking on the shower. Despite being together with Tom for the last few months, Rachel didn't like to share her space. And she especially didn't like to share her bed… well, not whilst _sleeping_ it in. Other activities were fine, of course.

She dragged herself under the hot shower and leant brokenly against the wall, letting the spray wash away the dirt and sweat of the night before. Reluctantly looking down at her body she noticed the scattered bruises that were starting to darken her pale skin.

'What the fuck did I do last night?' She whispered to herself.

An hour later, she was wrapped in her bathrobe and bypassed the bedroom where her boyfriend still lay sleeping. She wasn't surprised to find Fiona sitting at the counter in her kitchen, her blue eyes stormy.

'Mmmm, coffee,' Rachel smiled. Her publicist glowered at her.

'Not for you, Berry,' the woman responded. Rachel pouted.

'It's _my_ coffee,' she objected weakly.

'What is this?' Fiona demanded acidly, thrusting the laptop in front of her, where her own wide smile was beaming back at her. Entertainment news. Or some other crappy gossipy website. 'Seriously, Rachel. What the hell were you _thinking?_'

She peered at the pictures and her eyebrows rose as she tried to piece together what the hell had happened the night before. _It's Berry-picking season_, the headline announced. Well, _that_ didn't make sense.

'I thought I was at the Benefit Ball last night,' Rachel yawned, utterly confused. 'At the Guggenheim?'

'You were,' Fiona agreed sharply, 'until you got bored.'

'Oh no,' Rachel groaned.

'Then you lead a little group of drunken guests outside and decided to climb a tree…'

'I don't even _like_ climbing trees,' Rachel objected. Surely there had been some mistake. 'I hate heights.'

'That's not what you told the police when they told you to get down,' Fiona replied stonily. Rachel blinked her doe-eyes at her publicist, and on receiving no sympathy, rested her chin on the counter.

'I don't think that I want to know what I said.'

'You told them that berries grow on trees, so you were well within your rights to be up there,' Fi stated. At which, Rachel couldn't help but chuckle. That did sound like something that she would say. Well, at least this explained the bruises.

'It's not funny, Rachel,' Fiona snapped.

'Well, it is a little…' the brunette suggested.

'God, I could… _murder you_ sometimes!'

'All I did was climb a tree, Fi,' the brunette replied with a shrug. In the grand scheme of things that she could have done, this was actually pretty tame.

'You didn't _just climb a tree_,' her publicist snapped, pushing the laptop forward and gesturing to the pictures that Rachel had dismissed before even looking through them… then something twigged.

'Where's my dress?' She asked suddenly, peering at the grainy photographs with horror. Fiona smirked.

'You mean your cream-coloured _Giambattista Valli ball gown_?'

'Yeah, that's what I mean,' Rachel groaned, feeling more and more like a naughty schoolchild rather than international celebrity. There was something about Fiona that made her feel like her publicist liked making her feel this way. Kurt was going to kill her if something had happened to that dress.

'In some warped place that we like to call Rachel Berry's alcohol-addled mind, you realised how expensive the ball gown was and therefore logically took it off before climbing the tree.'

'So I climbed up a tree in _my underwear_?'

Rachel sighed. No doubt it had seemed a stellar idea at the time. Fiona glared at her.

'You got a fine for damaging public property,' her publicist told her. Rachel scoffed.

'I think that in a battle of me versus tree, the tree undoubtedly won,' she objected indignantly. 'I have bruises everywhere.'

'You are lucky you aren't being charged with indecent exposure.'

Rachel slipped off the barstool and aimed for the couch. She was tired of being berated and just wanted to sleep off her hangover in peace. Fiona rolled her eyes.

'When will you grow up, Rachel?' she demanded irritably. But the demand fell on deaf ears. It was just a tree for godsakes. But just sometimes she wished that the paparazzi didn't love her so much - they always seemed to be around to capture these moments.

* * *

><p>'Carlos!'<p>

Santana glanced up from the Sunday paper as her wife tripped into the kitchen, her long blonde hair tied back in a bun, hands planted on her hips. She looked pissed off, and the teasing words were on the tip of Santana's tongue a second before she remembered how strained and awkward things were between them.

'Where is the little monster?' Brittany demanded irritably, as though Santana herself was harbouring him like a fugitive.

'Playing outside,' she shrugged, watching her wife with weariness.

'Don't give me that look, San,' the dancer warned and Santana held up her hands in defence.

_'What_ look?'

'The look you are giving me right now, just stop it…' The blonde stormed over to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. It had been four weeks since Santana had shown the documentary to Rachel, and she and B had barely spoken since. At least not civilly. In many ways, San just wanted to reach across the distance between them and rub the tension from her wife's shoulders, kiss her neck, relax them both… but she was starting to realise that the distance between them, for the moment at least, was too great. It was starting to frighten her. Frighten her a lot.

'You know, I am just trying to read my paper,' she replied evenly, looking back to the headlines again. 'Not everything is about you, B.'

'What did you say?' Brittany turned to face her, eyes fierce.

'I told you to stop being so self-centred, B. Not _everything_ is about you.'

Brittany scoffed. 'You know that is rich, coming from you Santana!'

'I am just sitting here, _trying_ to read my paper in peace,' San replied heatedly. '_Trying_ to spend my Sunday morning with my kid.'

'You don't even know where he is!' Brittany retorted.

'He is _playing_ out back,' Santana snapped. She stood up sharply, scraping the chair across the floor as she did so. Her dark eyes flashed. 'Why don't you just go back to your little room with your _precious_ documentary, and leave us to it, hmm? We don't need you here right now.'

She barely saw the deep hurt that cut through Brittany's eyes, before the blonde turned on her heal and stormed out of the room, her footsteps loud on the stairs. And Santana took a ragged breath, hating herself for every moment that she stood there not running after her wife. She couldn't. Something had broken, in her or between them, she wasn't sure. But they were falling apart.

She was so preoccupied by her own thoughts that she didn't notice her son standing silently at the patio door, his young face bewildered too, and frightened.

* * *

><p>Brittany held onto her tears until the door to her den was shut firmly behind her. But then she leant back against the cool wood and let the tears flow. Santana had never been this way with her. Others, perhaps. But never her. She had seen Santana cold and scathing, but with Brittany? With Brittany, she was always soft and affectionate. She had never felt the sting of the Lopez barbs until now and these last few weeks had descended into her own personal hell. She felt them slipping apart, and it was as though there was nothing that she could do about it.<p>

She slid down the door, and settled herself on the floor, trying to muffle her sobs in her arms. When had it become so strained? When? Her chest ached, and she tried to swallow her tears.

She remembered back, to that time just after high school, when everything had been changing, when the uncertainty had frightened her. When Quinn was still a viable part of them, before she had severed herself so brutally from their lives.

'You and San are like dark chocolate and strawberries,' Quinn's lips had curved in amusement at her own analogy, reaching for Brittany's hand across the bars of the hospital bed. 'You're meant to be together. Santana can only be sweet when she's with you.'

And Brittany was afraid of what was now left. Now that her own sweetness had turned sour, and Santana no longer needed her there. She felt the uncertainty again, the fear. What if they couldn't come back from this? That question echoed hollowly within her.

* * *

><p>Quinn ran a hand through her short blonde hair as she waited impatiently in front of her netbook. Waiting was never something that she did well. In fact impatience was one of her worst qualities. She tapped her nails against the table in annoyance. At this rate, all that was going to happen when Rachel finally turned up online was that she was going to shout at her. And not just because of the stupid Entertainment news articles that Brittany had sent her.<p>

'Still waiting?' Jess smirked as she slipped into the chair beside her, looking out at the dusty road next to Jay's bar, across from which the hospital was situated. Quinn's hazel eyes cut to the Aussie and she bit back on the retort that was fresh on her full lips. It had taken a long time for her to learn to control her bitchy tendencies, but control them she did.

'How are our burns kids?' She asked instead, referring to the four children who had been brought in during the early hours of the morning from the infamous smoky mountain where yet another flash fire had broken out. Between them, Jess and she had worked their asses off all day trying to stabilise the little mites.

'Still alive,' Jess smiled cockily.

'So far,' Quinn replied, hooking her aviators into the neckline of her t-shirt.

'Can't you lighten up?' the Aussie asked with a sigh. She had worked with the blonde doctor for four months now, and the seriousness with which she approached her work was unrivalled. It was both impressive and irritating.

'It has been less than twelve hours,' Quinn looked at her pointedly, 'there is absolutely nothing for us to be proud about.'

'Except that they are still alive,' Jessica replied.

'_So far_,' Quinn qualified.

'You are hard to please, Quinn Fabray.'

The blonde leant back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest, levelling the Aussie with her infamous hazel stare.

'You have no idea,' she growled. At which point the Skype ringtone started to sound and Jess took it as her cue to go, rolling her eyes.

'Your date finally turned up then,' Jess quipped with a saccharine smile. Quinn narrowed her eyes at her colleague and sometime lover. As much as she may share her bed on the balmy nights, the Aussie had had little success getting to the soul of the woman who held her fascination. That cool reserve kept even her at a safe distance, particularly at moments like this.

'Go check on those kids,' she replied pointedly, 'make sure that we have something to be proud of by the end of this week, hmm?'

Quinn snapped her attention back to the screen, more confused than annoyed when she saw that it was Santana's screen-name that was calling her rather than Rachel's. Well, hell, at least she could rant about the fact that the diva had yet again stood her up. She pressed the answer button with irritation already on her lips, but the words died in her throat as the face swam into view.

'Carlos?'

Santana's troublemaking son blinked his wide dark eyes up at her, bloodshot from crying. Quinn leant forward, surprise crossing her features.

'Carlos,' she said his name seriously, 'does your Mami know that you are playing on her computer?'

The little boy shook his head mutely, uncharacteristically quiet. He often fought for a five minute slot at the beginning or end of Quinn's calls back to the Lopez-Pierce household. He had a special bond with his Auntie Q. She was fun. Usually.

'What's wrong, tiger?' she asked gently.

'They're fighting again,' he sniffed, pouting his lips at her.

'Fighting?'

'All the time,' he whispered. 'Momma is crying and Mami keeps shouting. They don't love me anymore. They don't want me…'

'Hey,' she said seriously, cutting in before he could start crying again, 'we both know that's not true. Your Momma and Mami love you more than anything in the world, Carlos…'

'Then why are they fighting? Why are they so sad all the time?' He asked earnestly, and Quinn felt her heart go out to him. Carlos may be a little monster most of the time, but she had a bond with the brat that others couldn't quite understand. He was family. That was special.

'Sometimes grown-ups get sad, and sometimes they argue,' she said slowly, 'but it doesn't mean that they don't love you. You are the most important person in your parent's lives. Don't forget that, tiger.'

'Why don't they love each other anymore?'

In his question she could hear her younger self, from a time when her parents were her world, when she still believed that her father was a man to worship and her mother the image of perfection. She had been younger than Carlos when that image had started to crack and it was anger that filled her now, a slow smouldering anger. Anger that her friends could let their child feel like that, no matter how unintentionally.

Quinn ran an agitated hand through her short hair, her eyes flicking from the tearstained face on the screen before her to the hospital across the road. For the first time in a long time she felt her loyalties torn, between the family that she had created for herself, and the one that she had left behind. She thought of the lives that hung in the balance, the four children who had come in just today with burns all over their bodies. It happened every day here. Burns. Shootings. Road traffic accidents. Factory accidents. Not to mention the never-ending stream of infectious diseases. Of malnutrition. Of the casualties of a country that was so desperately trying to rebuild itself. She had seen a lot, a lot more than she had seen in the US, a lot more than she had seen anywhere else.

Her eyes cut back to Carlos on her netbook screen, she felt herself soften. And she was reminded of the people she had put to the back of her mind for too long now. The other family that was falling apart.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading. Please review if you have the time.<strong>


	3. Nostalgia

**A/N: thank you for the reviews and interest in this story. It is going to be very different from the other story, so give it a chance to establish itself a little. It is very much about slightly broken individuals coming back together, so is taking a couple of chapters to get started. Thanks again.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 3 - Nostalgia<span>

The dirt from the ground had dusted her skin a reddish brown, but Quinn barely noticed it, flicking through the stack of paper notes piled at her side. A faint sheen of sweat had developed across her skin as she sheltered under the leafy branches of the banana tree away from the midday sun, the ragtag group of children playing around her.

'You have to leave, Americana?' Nabir, one of the orphan boys, asked hesitantly, kicking at a stone in the ground with his bare foot. Quinn slowly removed her aviators, smiling at him.

'I will come back,' she promised earnestly.

'But when?' he persisted, clearly not believing her.

'As soon as I am able to,' she replied. 'My family… in America… need me more, now, than the hospital here does.'

'We are not your family?' he pressed earnestly.

'A different kind of family…' she explained.

The look that he gave her was purely calculating, and it reminded Quinn that certain expressions were simply universal.

'If I break my insulin pens… then I will need you,' he stated thoughtfully. Quinn raised an eyebrow, fixing him with a level gaze, amusement still on her lips.

'If you break your insulin pens on purpose then you will need protection _from_ me, because I will kick your ass,' she replied, and was pleased to see the calculating look drop from his eyes. Nabir was smart, certainly smart enough not to irritate the young doctor.

The spell between them was broken as Jessica appeared, shooing the child away as she settled herself down next to the blonde and handed her a cold glass weeping with condensation.

'Lime juice,' the Aussie drawled, as she rolled her own cool glass across her forehead, 'I added sugar.'

'Thanks,' Quinn smirked.

'You're sure about this?' the Aussie asked, squinting across the compound in the sunlight.

'I'm not changing my mind if that is what you are asking,' Quinn replied, her eyes glancing over the fading scar tissue on the back of her right hand. Faded almost to obscurity, but not quite, still not quite. She glanced at her colleague as she picked up yet another file from the stack and flipped it open. Jessica rolled her eyes and sighed.

'Well, it was worth a try,' she shrugged.

'Seriously, it's just a short visit,' Quinn objected, 'I'm not going forever… there are just a few things that I… that I _need_ to do. It'll be a couple of weeks and I will be back. You won't even notice that I'm gone.'

'It always takes longer than a couple of weeks,' Jessica replied knowingly.

'Not for me,' Quinn replied firmly. 'Trust me, after a couple of weeks, my friends will be begging me to come back to Cambodia. I have that effect on people… They usually can't wait to get rid of me.'

Jessica snorted softly at that remark. Her hand dropped softly to the other woman's knee.

'I don't believe that is true….'

'You know very little about me, Jessica,' Quinn stated pointedly.

'I know enough,' the Aussie replied cryptically before sighing once more. 'Well if you aren't back by the global summit, then I am going to come and find you and drag your ass back here.'

'You won't need to,' Quinn replied firmly, 'a couple of weeks. Only a couple of weeks and I will be back, you will see.'

* * *

><p>Rachel blinked her eyes open, the thick mascara sticking the lashes together. Her head ached, like proper, pounding, nauseating aching. Like someone was taking a power drill to her skull aching. Like she had drunk too much alcohol last night aching. Utter confusion flooded her mind as the room slowly came into focus.<p>

Sunday morning.

'Where the fuck am I?' she asked grittily.

She was more than a little surprised when she received a chirpy reply.

'My house,' Carlos's disembodied voice floated back to her, and Rachel blinked in confusion, wondering if she had made him up or had actually crashed at B and Santana's again. 'Mami couldn't get you upstairs in your _alcohol-induced stupor_. So she left you on the couch to sleep it off.'

Yep. Definitely real. At least Carlos had been playing quietly as she slept. That was something of a miracle in itself. He came into focus and Rachel smiled at the boy. With his wild dark curls and deep dark eyes, he was unmistakably a Lopez.

'Do you know where your Mami is?' she asked grittily.

'Working,' Carlos growled, clearly unimpressed, 'she wants you to check your phone when you wake up.'

Of course she did. Rachel would gladly leave that pleasant task until later. Santana had undoubtedly left a message that conveyed her displeasure adequately. The brunette groaned. She tried to sink back into the couch, her hand shading her eyes, before realising that it was definitely too bright to go back to sleep. Cruel, cruel world.

'Auntie Rach,' the boy's voice was close to her, and Rachel cracked open one eye to see him hovering beside her. He held out the glass of water.

'You are the best kid ever, you know that?' she stated, gladly accepting the water and wishing she had the strength to find some paracetamol.

'You're the only grown up who thinks so,' he muttered dejectedly.

'Come on, Carlos, we both know that's not true,' Rachel replied cajolingly, 'your parents think that the sun shines out of your big toe…'

'Not at the moment…' he persisted glumly and Rachel slowly pushed herself up to sit on the couch, her head spinning nauseatingly. She patted the seat beside her and waited for him to hop up onto the couch before wrapping an arm about his shoulders.

'…I'm grounded,' he admitted reluctantly. Rachel chuckled at his tone before thinking of Fiona and Santana's likely reactions to her own latest escapade… God, she imagined that they would _love_ to be able to do that to her.

'What for?' she asked lightly.

'Fighting,' he shrugged, 'at school. Momma cried and Mami got mad.'

'You've got to learn to use your words and not your fists,' Rachel stated sagely.

'It's not that easy you know,' he replied glumly. Rachel ruffled his curls affectionately. She had always had a good affinity with Carlos and took a certain satisfaction from the symmetry between herself, the daughter of two gay men and Carlos, the son of two gay women. Even if he hadn't been the son of her closest friends, she would have still felt a special connection with him. Although the world had become slightly more liberal since her childhood, and New York was certainly leaps ahead of Lima, there was still no lack of prejudice around.

'I know,' she acknowledged, though Rachel Berry had never understood fighting in her life. She had never been one to use violence – shouting, screaming and tantrums, certainly, but fighting? Totally not Rachel Berry's style.

'Why is your Mami at work today? I thought that the office was closed on Sunday?' she asked sleepily, feeling a surge of gratitude that her understudy performed the Sunday matinees.

'They had another argument,' Carlos stated, staring at his small hands as he picked at a fingernail. 'Momma's upstairs. Mami left.'

Those words cut through the haze of her hangover and Rachel felt the sharp lance of concern spear through her, focusing seriously on the boy.

'_Another_ argument?' she echoed. Sure, she and B hadn't spoken since that night many weeks ago when Rachel had seen Brittany's latest documentary, but the thought of Santana and B arguing? That was disturbing to say the least. Santana Lopez worshiped the ground that her wife walked on, she always had. It was like one of the laws of physics, irrefutable. Rachel had never heard them so much as shout at each other. 'Has this been happening a lot?'

The boy nodded silently and Rachel hugged him closer to her, feeling a small degree of satisfaction when he snuggled closer into her arms.

'They will work it out….' She tried the empty platitude. Couples argued; it was healthy to argue. It was just that she had never really witnessed it with Santana and B.

'That's what Auntie Q said,' Carlos stated rather flatly, and the way that he said Quinn's name made Rachel both swell with warmth even as she felt the sharp flash of guilt. It had been so long now, since they had spoken. She had been avoiding their fortnightly Skype calls ever since she had seen the documentary, uncertain as to whether she would be able to withhold the information from the blonde. Quinn had always been able to read her like an open book.

'Well Auntie Q is right,' she agreed.

'She said that she would come and kick some _behind_ if they didn't sort it out…'

Rachel chuckled. 'Well no one messes with your Auntie Q…'

'Not even Mami?' he asked sceptically, and Rachel couldn't help the smile that spread across her face, thinking nostalgically back to high school. It was bittersweet to remember, and never failed to make her ache. Ache in that way that you do when you think of an easier time, of the time when you had everything you needed but never appreciated it. Before you grew up.

'Not even your Mami,' she echoed faintly, lost in nostalgia. Carlos smiled to himself, and wriggled out of his aunt's embrace to return to melting his action men together.

* * *

><p>By Tuesday morning Brittany was sipping on iced tea as she flicked through the publicity stills in the lofty offices of the New York HQs. The day was beautiful, one of the first spring days that truly convinced her that summer was coming. It was hard to think, on days like this, that anything could be wrong with the world and it was a cruel trick of nature to let her think that.<p>

'Is everything okay, Brittany?' Simon asked, leaning against the doorframe and peering at her through his designer glasses.

'Just… caught up in my thoughts,' she replied, a sad smile on her lips.

'About Cambodia?' he asked, slipping into the room and settling down into the chair beside her. She felt a stab of guilt at the assumption, because nothing had been further from her mind. Her thoughts had been circling, once more, about her marriage, about Santana, about the barbs that they were hurling so thoughtlessly at each other. The cracks between them seemed to be deepening and she wished that they could both just smooth it over, wished that they could laugh and hold each other as they used to, laugh about their mutual stupidity. Make love into the night. But every time they fought she just felt herself pull further away, as though she was starting to believe that this wasn't going to work. That the damage was getting too great. That she would never be able to reach Santana again.

'It is a very powerful project,' Simon empathised, having little idea of what really was going through her mind. 'It would be impossible to be so involved in this project and not be changed by it. Haunted.'

She looked at him thoughtfully, as though she was seeing him for the first time.

'You really think that?' she asked softly.

'I wouldn't have said it if I didn't,' he replied earnestly. Brittany nodded, a small smile on her lips.

'It did haunt me,' she admitted quietly, 'for a long time, it haunted my dreams and even when I was awake, sometimes I could see them. Quinn showed me a world that I had no idea could possibly exist. She showed me the way in which people live and die out there, that there is nothing fair in this world.'

She bit her lip and looked down at the stills, the images that she had captured in grotesque Technicolor.

'It changed me. When I came back, I knew that I had to share it,' Brittany's words were filled with an intensity she had kept so close to her; this was the point that Rachel and Santana just did not understand. Could not understand. They saw the documentary just as Quinn. A betrayal of Quinn. But it was so much more than that, so much more important than that. 'Quinn gives herself every day to that place, to those people. She has a gift, and she gives them everything. But I am not a doctor, I am not Quinn. I can't help them the way that she can. But I can do this. And I knew as soon as I came back that I needed to share this story with the world.'

Simon placed his warm hand over hers, and she glanced up at him, suddenly acutely aware of his closeness. Not in a threatening way, but just that he was there beside her, whilst no one else was. No one had been for a long time now.

'Maybe you should add an "s" to the title,' he suggested with a smile. And she blinked at him in confusion.

'What do you mean?' she asked softly.

'"The Young Idealists",' he replied, 'it has a ring to it, Brittany. It is a story told through your eyes, you welcome us to Quinn's world. This story is just as much about you as it is about her.'

* * *

><p>'How would you describe your actions?' Laura's question hovered in the air between them and Rachel entangled her fingers in the wicker of the bucket chair she was swinging in. Laura's office was unusual for a psychotherapist, and it was probably the wicker chair that hung irreverently from the ceiling that made Rachel keep coming back. Either that or the Morrocan mint tea. Totally to die for.<p>

'I know that you are trying to make me say that it was childish,' she replied bluntly, shooting her therapist a sharp look.

'Why do you think that I want you to say that?' Laura asked patiently, bemused.

'Because it was. You are right… as you are always right…' Rachel rolled her eyes to the ceiling and sank back, 'I'm not going to apologise for it.'

'Do you feel that you need to apologise?' Laura echoed her words back to her in that pleasantly amused way, her eyes warm as she appraised the singer. She was old enough to be her mother, and perhaps it was that subconscious, unspoken need that had kept Rachel around for so long. Santana, Fiona, Kurt, B... Quinn. Even Quinn. They had all insisted that she see someone after the stalker incident had gotten rather out of hand. Individually and together they had pestered her until she couldn't be bothered to fight with them anymore and had given in with a reluctant agreement to see a therapist, only for a few sessions, just to keep them happy. A few sessions had stretched on to a few more, and before she knew it, Rachel had been coming to Laura's office for almost a year.

'No,' Rachel objected, 'whenever I _feel_ like I should apologise I _always_ do. I have a terrible guilt complex. But in this case I don't think that I have anything to apologise for! So what if it is childish. I don't really give a flying fuck.'

Laura raised a mild eyebrow. She didn't flinch in the way that Rachel wanted her to when she swore, just kept watching her with those kind blue eyes. The silence stretched out between them, and Rachel would be damned if it was she who broke it.

'Have you spoken to Brittany since?' Laura asked finally.

'No,' Rachel returned her look fiercely. 'And I am not going to.'

'It has been seven weeks now, Rachel,' Laura reminded her gently.

'I told her that if she did this then I would _never_ speak to her again.'

'We don't always mean what we say in the heat of the moment…'

'I _meant_ this. I meant it then, and I mean it now.' Although seven weeks had passed, the anger still simmered beneath the surface with an intensity that even Rachel was surprised that she possessed. Sure, her temper flashed hotly at times, but it was just that… a flash, nothing more. And after whatever little outburst she gave herself in to, she would return to her usual baseline. But this? This had triggered something, it had unrepentantly dug up old feelings, carefully buried beneath the years, and struck her hard to her very core.

'You are very, very angry,' Laura acknowledged, resting her elbows on her knees as she leant forward in her own chair. 'And that is ok. But, consider something for me, Rachel… are you sure that all this anger you have originates from Brittany's actions? Or are you misplacing it onto her?'

The question seemed to choke her, as effectively as a hand wrapped around her neck. For that was potentially the core of what she refused to acknowledge. That the anger was not all new. It was old. It had been slowly burning for years. But as to whom it should be directed towards… that was a question she was not yet ready to face.

* * *

><p>Quinn's heart was thudding in a way that she did not want to admit to, her palms sweaty as she thrust the tatty passport back into her bag, ducking into the airport toilets and bracing her arms against the basins. Tinny music resonated from the speakers, that characteristic haunting music and the swirling lyrics in the Khmer tongue. She dropped her duffel bag to the floor and turned on the tap, splashing her face with the tepid water.<p>

'Pull it together, Fabray,' she told herself sternly in the mirror, meeting her own gaze.

How long had it been now, since she had gone back? A year? Eighteen months? Twenty four, maybe?

'It's only for two weeks. You can do it for two weeks.'

And it wasn't as though she wasn't going to have to go back to the US later in the year anyway for the world summit on Global Health. But then again, it wasn't the same going to New York for work. At least she had a purpose then, a goal. This? This was different. And she wasn't quite ready to figure out why or how.

She ran a hand through her blonde hair, the cut was growing out and now hung just above her shoulders. The lines around her eyes deeper than they had been, lines of expression against the sun-kissed skin.

'Pull it together,' she echoed herself. They didn't know yet that she was coming back. Not Rachel. Not Santana. Not Brittany. She would like to think that it was because she wanted to surprise them, whereas in truth it was because she was uncertain as to whether she would find the courage to return. Only Carlos knew. And that was probably her downfall… she could never break a promise to him.

* * *

><p>Fitted shirt. White. Simple. Double cuffed. The top buttons undone enough to reveal the smooth curve of her neck. Chanel at her pulse points. Timeless class, she liked to think. The cufflinks had been a present from Q for her 21st birthday. <em>SL<em> engraved in an elegant loop on the silver surface. Black pencil skirt. Courts shoes that clicked like gunshots as she walked across the marble floor. Dark hair tied back, severely enough to look professional, casually enough to look sexy. Make up to make her flawlessness look effortless. The plain wedding band on her ring finger sitting snuggly against her engagement ring.

Santana Lopez had been beautiful from the day she was born, but it had taken her years to grow into it. Years for fierceness to mellow into self-confidence. Years for her to outgrow her raging adolescent libido. Sometimes she wondered whether the younger Santana would loathe her for the choices she had made, whether she would disapprove of the structured life she had constructed, a life of rules and responsibilities that once undertaken were impossible to escape. Part of her had always been wild, and free, but sometimes now, she wondered where that girl had gone.

'Lopez.'

Her name carried across the cold surfaces of the hall, although the speaker had not raised their voice in the slightest. She turned, surprised to see the elegant redhead approaching her. Kimberly Stanton-Lee. The tingling across her skin was a shock, and it was more the surprise of it than her bizarrely visceral reaction to the woman that made her catch her breath.

'You were impressive today,' Stanton-Lee drawled in her self-confident way, pausing at her side, a couple of inches taller than she, 'don't think that the hours that you are putting in haven't been noted, because they have. We are really starting to see a picture of you as someone we would like to keep on… cultivate and nurture, if you understand me, Lopez?'

It was rare for Santana to be at a loss for words, but for a second she needed to just… process what Stanton-Lee had said. Understand? Hell, she understood.

'Thank you,' she smiled, not too cocky but not too shy. She knew she was good. Hell, she would always be good at whatever she did. But in law being good was not enough, everyone was good at their job, it was the hours that you put in, the long, hard slog, that reflected in success.

'I'd like to get to know you a bit more,' Stanton-Lee stated, 'feel you out as it were. You deserve a break after today's success, Lopez, how about a drink after work?'

_After today's success_. It had been a success. She should be feeling the rush of victory through her veins, the special brand of adrenaline that success brought with it. But all she felt was hollow. For who was she going to share it with? B? B didn't even know what today meant. Santana had watched her over her orange juice that morning and opened her mouth to say something, to tell her wife about the nervousness in her belly, about her insecurities, about the effort and work that she had put in, blood and sweat and tears. But the blonde had caught her eye, that cold look between them as she fussed over Carlos and his school uniform, about how the boy could make anything look rumpled and scruffy. So Santana had held her tongue, focused on her orange juice and paper instead. She had no one to share in her success.

'Sure,' she replied. A drink or two after work. What harm could it do? And the tingling on her skin. The tingling that reminded her of being seventeen again… that was just something she was going to ignore.

* * *

><p>The plane touched down at JFK at 21.40.<p>

Quinn waited for her bag for an hour, standing in the cool, air-conditioned baggage reclaim, her arms wrapped around herself. She subconsciously tapped at the back of her right hand, against that age-old scar, not quite agitated, not quite relaxed. The bold, brash American advertisements felt like they were assaulting her senses. The English language everywhere she turned. Chrome. Steel. Glass. Concrete. The smell of disinfectant in the cold air. The smell of money. The culture shock had hit her full force.

She hauled her duffel bag off the belt when it finally came, ignoring anyone and everyone who tried to make conversation with her. She was in a daze as she meandered through customs. Until the final sliding doors. She paused. Other passengers stepped around her, passed her by, as she watched the doors open and then close. Open and close. _Pull it together, Fabray_. She urged her legs to move. Until she stepped across the threshold… She was finally back in America.

* * *

><p>Santana fumbled with her key against the brass lock on the door. Missing once, twice, then finally getting it in. Her focus was a bit off, the haze of alcohol making her labile and heady. She felt a rush of achievement to have finally managed to get the door open, and stumbled hesitantly inside.<p>

The house was dark, the only light from the sitting room where she imagined Brittany had been doing her yoga.

'Where have you been?' the tall blonde appeared out of nowhere and her sudden question threw Santana off kilter.

'Work.'

She walked through to the kitchen, flipping on the light and throwing her bag down onto the counter, wishing that she could regain the happy alcohol buzz she had had going on. Brittany followed, hands making their way to her hips.

'I was worried about you,' she pressed.

'You shouldn't bother,' the Latina returned curtly, keeping her back to her wife.

'Have you been drinking?' Brittany sounded almost tearful through the angry tone and Santana swung round, that slightly wild look that intoxication gave her flashing in her eyes.

'So what if I have, B?' she taunted lightly, 'what's it to you?'

'Did you _drive_ home?' Brittany crossed her arms in front of her chest, blinking back the tears.

'I'm not an idiot,' the Latina responded disdainfully, 'I got a cab.'

She made as if to push passed her wife when Brittany's hand caught her arm, freezing her in place. The sudden physical contact between them surprised her. Surprised her that it was so significant. And she was close enough to see the tears on Brittany's cheeks, the hurt in those blue eyes.

'Have you been with someone else?' her voice cracked on the question and Santana felt the words as though they were a physical blow to her face.

She opened her mouth to answer, only to be cut off with the ringing of her phone on the counter. She reached back for it, but Brittany was quicker, snatching it up and answering the call. Santana's racing thoughts were cut short with the name that fell incredulously from Brittany's lips.

'_Quinn?_?... You're _where?_'

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Please review if you have the time.<strong>


	4. Reunion

**AN: sorry that this has taken so long - life is totally getting in the way of writing at the moment, so updates are unfortunately going to be few and far between. Thanks for continuing to read - it does have a story arc planned, I promise. And thank you very much for the reviews - it is always good to get feedback that a few people are actually reading this.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 4 - Reunion<span>

Santana swallowed another paracetamol and chased it with the bottle of San Pelligrino that sat waiting on her desk. Her head was throbbing. Not the horrendous pounding of when she had first awoken, but throbbing nonetheless, and she wished that she was anywhere but in the office with a stack of files on her desk that some attractive paralegal had deposited with a flash of a smile. Yeah, Santana Lopez was not feeling her best.

She was concentrating hard on the text before her, a small frown line between her brows, when she felt the unusual sensation of someone watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to rise, knowing before she did who it was.

She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face as she looked up from her work. Quinn leant against the doorframe, a familiar smirk on her lips, and Santana could swear that not a day had gone by since they had last seen each other.

'Hi,' the blonde smiled, unable to hide the excitement that flickered in her expression. Santana knew her too well for that.

'Fabray,' she tried to keep her tone level and Q raised an eyebrow.

'Lopez.'

And before she knew she was moving, she found herself out of her desk chair and across the room, pulling the blonde roughly by the front of her shirt into her arms, crushing her tightly in her embrace.

'Two years? _Two years Quinn?_ Christ!' she swore, feeling the woman's answering strength as she returned the embrace, holding onto the Latina with an intensity that Santana knew equalled her own. They were closer than family. They had always had something, but in the years that had passed between the tragedy and the doctor's flight to Cambodia, Quinn had become closer to her than a sister. Santana had always felt that she could see Quinn better than she could see herself and it was true in reverse as well.

The scent of her, the sweet smell of coconut and spice, was new. A perfume or shampoo that the blonde hadn't used before, well at least not before she had left the country. Santana pulled back and looked at her critically. Sun-kissed skin, ragged blonde hair that had grown out of its original style, faint smile lines about her eyes… but the hazel eyes were the same, that same thinly veiled exasperation as she tolerated Santana's scrutiny.

'_Two years!_' she slapped at the other woman's arm, once, twice, before her eyes focussed in on the thin scar that ran smoothly up into the blonde's hairline, faint but unmistakable. 'What the hell? What the hell is this? How did you get this?'

'It's a scar, Santana,' Quinn smiled faintly.

'I can see that, smart arse, how did you get it?'

'Bike accident,' Q replied vaguely.

'On one of those moto things? Were you wearing a helmet?'

'I do now,' Q replied with a shrug. There was no way that she was volunteering more information.

'I should kick your ass, Fabray,' the lawyer growled.

'I missed you too, Santana,' Quinn seemed unperturbed and Santana hit her arm again.

'Seriously, _two years! Two YEARS!_ And you come back covered in scars.'

'In fairness, most of the scars were there before I left,' Quinn remarked somewhat darkly, 'and besides, Jasper always said that my scars were the most beautiful thing about me.'

'Which is why you shouldn't listen to that baboon,' Santana snapped, continuing her critical survey whilst holding the blonde at arms-length. 'He is clearly deluded.'

'He's an artistic genius.'

'Same difference,' Santana pursed her lips, frowning, 'you're thin. Are you eating?'

'Now you are seriously starting to sound like your mother,' Quinn rolled her eyes.

'Answer the question, Fabray,' Santana replied sternly.

'Of course I'm eating, you doofus,' Quinn shrugged her friend's grip off her, and wrapped an arm about the Latina as she led her into the office, 'which is partly why I'm here. I've had this little sushi craving for eighteen months, and I can't stand it anymore. I made a reservation for two at Mishima. You and me, San. Can you take a break?'

The brunette looked at her incredulously.

'At Mishima? Finally dipping into that inheritance of yours?'

'I'm getting over my guilt complex,' Quinn shrugged. But there was something about the blonde's studied casualness that reminded Santana of the pain that still lingered beneath the surface. She knew Quinn Fabray like the back of her hand. She bit her lip to stop the words that she wanted to say from tumbling from her lips.

'I have no issue helping you spend your fortune,' she quipped instead, catching the flicker at the corner of Q's eyes. Yeah. Santana Lopez could still read Fabray like an open book, and for a moment she felt a pang of regret for the girl that she had once known, the one who hadn't had this darkness hidden behind her hazel eyes.

* * *

><p>It was almost an hour later that Santana watched with a bemused expression as Quinn devoured the last of a platter of sashimi. She may be eating delicately, dipping the tuna in a carefully balanced mix of soy sauce and wasabi with her thin chopsticks, but Quinn was showing absolutely no sign of stopping.<p>

'Seriously, Q, have you actually been eating over there?'

'That question is getting old,' the blonde replied pointedly.

'You know it is going to be the first thing that my mother asks me,' Santana defended herself, 'and the second one is why the hell you are staying in some stupid hotel when you should be staying with me and B.'

'I don't want to impose….'

'Bullshit, Q, you are practically an extra limb to me, and you know it.'

Quinn snorted at that analogy none-too delicately, her lips curving into a small smile once more, and in a display of affection that was quite unusual for her, she reached out across the table and covered Santana's hand with her own. The Latina looked down at that hand, at the pearly shine of scar tissue that twisted itself around the blonde's forearm. She had never gotten used to seeing it.

'I've missed you, San,' Quinn met her eyes.

Santana felt a genuine smile curve her lips.

'If you think that you are going to get me to say something mushy, then you can think again, Fabray,' she responded.

'No fear of you getting soft,' Quinn laughed, targeting a piece of yellow tail.

Santana glanced around, taking in the sharp business suits and designer clothes that frequented the tables about them. Mishima was one of the most exclusive sushi restaurants in Manhattan, and had a reputation for some of the best sushi outside of Japan. Not only was it a miracle that Q had managed to get them a table, but it was a total miracle that she had been allowed into the premises dressed as she was. Santana knew that she herself fit in with the rest of the clientele, her business suit was tailored with enough finesse to let her blend with the other members of the business district, but Q in her slightly outdated traveller's chic stuck out like a sore thumb.

'You may want to reconsider your wardrobe choices whilst you're in New York,' Santana commented. 'Traveller chic went out of fashion with Angelina Jolie eight years ago.'

'Believe it or not, there are limited shopping districts in Phnom Penh,' the blonde quipped with a saccharine smile, 'and I don't give a shit about what people think of me here.'

The Latina laughed, 'you will change your tune once you see Kurt, mark my words, Fabray.'

The blonde smirked in response, knowing that it was probably true.

'So between stuffing your face with sashimi and rainbow roll, do you mind telling me why the only person who seemed to know that you were coming back was my_ son_?' Santana pressed, her voice taking on a slight edge that made Quinn's back straighten. It may be subtle, but she knew Santana well enough to know when she was preparing for a fight, and Quinn was never one to be caught off guard.

'To be perfectly honest, the only person who has _spoken_ to me over the last six weeks from New York has been your son,' she replied succinctly. She fixed her eyes on the brunette as she bit into the last piece of salmon from their platter.

'Do you want to explain to me why you didn't talk to me about what has been going on between you and B?' she asked quietly. And from the surprise on Santana's face, she knew that the brunette had not expected the question.

'B talked to you about it?' Santana demanded defensively and Quinn placed down her chopsticks gently.

'Carlos did,' she replied.

Then more gently she shrugged, 'why else do you think that I'm here, San?'

* * *

><p>It was three in the afternoon by the time that Quinn managed to navigate through the faintly memorable maze of traffic to the little house in the suburbs that looked so familiar. Out of everything that had brought her back, this was the part that scared her least. She turned off the engine, and looked up at the house that had not changed in the two years since she had left. Before she had even managed get out of the car, the front door had swung open and the dark haired boy had thrown her against the side of her rental, knocking the air out of her with the force.<p>

'Carlos!' B's voice was halfway between exclamation and reproach. But Quinn ignored her as she hauled the boy into the air with effort. She had been involved with enough kids to know how to handle them without treating them as fragile little ornaments.

'Jeeez Carlos, you've grown!' she groaned, dropping him down again and looking down into the large dark eyes, 'what are you, twelve now?'

'I'm seven!' he shouted.

'Are you sure?' she teased, 'you look waaaay too big for a seven year old.'

'I'm _seven!_'

'Sure thing, wiseguy, we can check the math later,' Quinn slammed shut the door of the rental car and let Carlos lead her proudly indoors to where Brittany was waiting. Seeing Brit was nothing like seeing Santana. Where the Latina was all tough exterior and sarcasm, biting remarks and quick wit, Brittany looked at her with that softly understanding way that always made Quinn want to cry. Her eyes, so blue, held a natural serenity that Quinn had never known for herself, and she doubted that she ever would. Britt had an inner peace, whereas Q was forever in turmoil. In the true sense of the word, Quinn felt that she and Santana were soulmates… they understood each other innately, in the way of people who are carved from the same bedrock, whereas B was a step apart, enlightened perhaps.

B said nothing as she enveloped her old friend in her arms and the smaller blonde closed her eyes, enjoying that strangely special feeling of being held in Brittany's embrace. It had been about a year since Brit had left Cambodia, and in their time together out there Quinn had felt that she had shared with the taller blonde something crucial about herself, about how she had moved on from the girl who had left two years before. She had shared the side of her that had been forever changed, and B had understood in a way that Santana and Rachel never would.

'I missed you,' Brittany's words were whispered faintly in her ear.

The moment was broken as Carlos nuzzled his way in between them, bouncing with barely contained excitement.

'Come on, Auntie Q, _come on!_ I need to show you everything…'

* * *

><p>Brittany couldn't quite contain her smile as she watched her son run around excitedly gathering anything and everything to show to Q who had taken up residence cross-legged on the floor. So often now she was struck with the realisation that he was growing up, that time was ticking by and her little boy was forever reaching for the next level, each step taking him further away from the child she had nurtured through from carrying him as a baby, to watching his first steps. Like all children he was so desperate to be bigger and older and more grown-up, but it was moments like this, when he displayed such uncontainable excitement, that she remembered that he was still her little boy.<p>

She carefully poured the boiling water onto the fresh mint leaves, crushing them absently with a spoon, and recognised the unfamiliar pang of guilt that was gnawing in her belly. Brittany was not accustomed to guilt. She rarely felt the emotion, but right now, with Q sitting on her living room floor, the guilt had started with a vengeance. She had to admit it was easier to justify her actions with the blonde far away, but with her here, sitting cross-legged, playing with her son… It had her questioning everything that she had done. Even now, upstairs, in her den, there were the final three publicity designs for _The Young Idealist_. She had spent so long over the last twelve months watching two dimensional representations of Quinn, editing them, playing with the sound, the colour, the words, that she had almost forgotten that the girl was three dimensional too. That she was spontaneous and real.

In her excitement about the documentary, Brittany hadn't really let herself think about the person behind the images. She had used Quinn's darkness, Quinn's pain and vulnerability to tell her story, in the same way that Jasper had once used Quinn's scars to sell his photographs. There was something compelling about her, about the wounds she had suffered. It was with a chill of fear that Brittany realised that now.

'Here,' she smiled as she handed Q the steaming Turkish glass.

'Thanks,' the answering smile reached the doctor's hazel eyes and Brittany felt almost nauseated by the knife of conscience that was twisting in her belly. _The Young Idealist_ would hit the big screen in eight weeks, even if she had wanted to, there was no way that she could stop it now – it was beyond her control. And the publicity roll would be kicking off in just two weeks time...

'Are you alright, B? You look white as a sheet…'

Quinn's concern snapped her from her thoughts and she sat herself down gingerly on the edge of the couch.

'How long are you staying?' She asked.

'_Forever!_' Carlos interjected, having picked up on the last question as he dropped his remote control car onto the floor beside his aunt.

'Two weeks,' Q replied instead, ruffling Carlos's hair in a way that he never let his mothers do as he knelt down beside her, '_this_ is super cool…'

'No one says stuff like _super cool_ in New York,' Carlos snorted.

'I do,' Quinn replied with a smirk, 'because I'm _super cool_. And don't you forget it, wiseguy… Now show me how this thing works…'

Two weeks. _Two weeks_. It would be close, but it was likely that Q would miss the start of the blitz of publicity. The aim had been to hit hard and fast, snare people's attention, for the interest in documentary film was narrow and when taking a target to the big screen it was important to capture the public's attention… at least that was what Simon had said.

Two weeks. God, she prayed that Q would miss it. There would be nothing more freaky than seeing your own sunlit face on a billboard. Not even Brittany could come up with an explanation for it. But then what…? Would she have to keep this a secret from Q forever? Was there even any possibility that she could? It was impossible, surely impossible… but then Q was practically on a different planet. She had been for two years, and there was nothing that Brittany could ever imagine would bring her back… except Rachel. Always Rachel. But Quinn had burnt that bridge a long time ago.

Her hands were shaking, she realised with alarm, even as she watched the blonde and her son play about with the remote control car. While the reality of lying to Q about the documentary was totally unfeasible, Brittany could not bring herself to tell her, she couldn't even imagine the reaction that she would get. And so the only option was to lie… and to hide it. Just for a little while longer, until the whole thing was over. And she knew exactly who it was that she should call to keep Quinn's focus away from prolonging the trip to New York. The very person who had helped chase her away in the first place... Brittany resolved to call Fiona as soon as possible.

* * *

><p>It hadn't taken Carlos long to persuade Quinn to take him out on his bike… In fact, it had been something that she had promised when they had been talking over Skype in the preceding weeks and with B looking as exhausted as she was, Quinn had no difficulty with persuading the blonde to let her steal her kid away for another hour or so.<p>

'Does Cambodia have seven days in a week?'

'Do they have monkeys everywhere?'

'Do the kids only eat coconuts and bananas? I don't like bananas.'

She had been subjected to the onslaught of questions for an hour, and it showed no signs of stopping, even with Carlos's smaller legs peddling at twice the speed of her own. As a kid, Quinn had loved her bike. She had always been out on it, ever since she had learnt to ride, even though Franny had always been faster and better and on a bigger bike than hers. She had always wanted to be outside, and she couldn't imagine the claustrophobia of growing up in a city like New York.

'Why is my Momma taller than you? But you _both_ have blonde hair?'

'Do both your mommies have blonde hair?'

'Will your children have blonde hair? Because I don't and my Momma has _really_ blonde hair.'

Pelham Bay Park was as close as it got to the countryside within New York, and actually, as parks go, Quinn had to admit it wasn't too bad. When she had last been back, Carlos had only been five years old, but she had taken him here to help him learn how to ride his bike. It was something that Santana had tried to join in with but rapidly realised that she did not have the patience for, and had watched on, smirking, as Quinn and Carlos had struggled. She doubted that Carlos remembered that now, though Quinn would be the first to admit that the power of memory is a weird and wonderful thing.

'Why is water wet?'

'When the lightening hits it, why don't all the fish die?'

'Do you eat fish? Aunt Rachel doesn't because she is an actress. And actresses have to _pretend_ to hate things, when really they don't.'

They weaved in and out of the oak trees and the salt marshes and Quinn's thoughts were pulled to Rachel against her will. _I hate you so much right now_. Rachel had hissed those words at her before she left for Cambodia, furious tears streaming down her cheeks. _I fucking hate you_… Quinn wished that Rachel hadn't meant it at the time, but she knew that she had. She had meant every word, and it had echoed hollowly around inside her head for days… weeks and months… Until the memories started to fade, the distance had started to numb the pain, and Quinn had known that she should never go back.

'Where does the sky end?'

'And how much does it weigh? Why doesn't it fall down on top of us?'

As luck had it, life had somehow equipped her with the ability to answer difficult questions, but her conversations with Carlos were bringing her to the edge of her theoretical reasoning. When she had been younger she had been just as curious as him, maybe every child was, but her parents had answered everything with the same theme – 'because God made it that way'. It was a very versatile answer, it seemed, and though her faith had stretched and contracted, become something indefinable and personal, she had resolved never to ever answer any child's question with those words. In her mind it was somehow equivalent with telling him to shut the hell up.

They had been riding for fifteen minutes when Q pulled them off the track. They dropped their bikes between the trees and Carlos took her hand to follow her up onto the small ridge of rocks that looked out over the fields.

'Drink some water, tiger,' Q instructed as they sat down together on the rocks, gazing out over the park with the golden light of the falling sun reflecting off the landscape. You could hardly believe that you were still in the city, and Quinn felt more at peace away from the noise and the traffic.

'How did you get so smart, Auntie Q?'

That question threw her for a moment, before she found the answer that she knew Santana would approve of.

'When I was your age I ate _lots_ of vegetables,' she replied straight-faced. Carlos narrowed his eyes.

'That's a fib,' he deducted.

'Oh really?'

'Yeah, really. Cos loads of people eat tonnes of vegetables and they don't know why the sky is the sky and the sea is the sea and not the other way around, they just say that that is the way that it is...'

'Well eating vegetables is good for your nutrition and good nutrition is good for your brain, which makes thinking easier… so taking good nutrition by eating all your vegetables is very important…'

'…Ok…' Carlos pondered that one rather reluctantly, before his attention skipped ahead once again. 'So when are you going to kick some _behind_?'

Quinn spluttered on the water she was drinking at the time of his question. Clearly she had been more vocal than she had intended about her intentions, and Carlos, being the sponge for information as he was, had clearly picked up on it. He apparently anticipated her turning into a ninja or something.

'It is more… abstract than that, Carlos. We use words not fists when sorting out problems, okay?'

He certainly looked less than impressed by that as well. She leant forward to talk to him more seriously, holding his dark gaze.

'What is most important in all of this is that both your parents love you very much, Carlos. And I love you very much, and I know your Aunt Rachel does too, and your Uncle Kurt,' she paused, glancing out again at the sun that was already heavy in the sky, 'what you need to do, what is most important, is for you to be loving and supportive to both your Momma and your Mami. That is what they need right now. Do you think that you can do that?'

He nodded silently, chewing on his bottom lip. He drank some more water and Quinn was grateful for the small silence that stretched between them. It was over too soon, as Carlos, of course, had another question on the tip of his tongue.

'Why don't you have a wife, Auntie Q?'

Quinn sucked in her breath through her teeth at that. It was no question of theology or physics, but that made it all the more difficult. How _difficult_ it was to answer. _Because I haven't met the right person yet_. Well that was just a lie, plain and simple. She had met the right person at the age of five and they had sat in the reading corner in kindergarten holding hands as they flipped through a picture book. Quinn wasn't sure if she actually remembered that memory, or whether it was something that she had constructed in her mind after being told the story over and over again by Rachel's dads. Her own father had made her transfer kindergartens after finding her inseparably joined to the Berry-girl, in retrospect he should have made her move state. _Because I was never good enough for the girl I loved_. Now that was closer to the truth, as self-destructive as it was. _Because I was scared. Because I was controlling. Because I loved her too much_.

'Because I never asked her to marry me,' the words slipped out as a whisper, and despite their lack of context, Carlos seemed satisfied with the answer. For a moment he looked serious, deep in thought.

'When I grow up, I'll marry you,' he stated earnestly and she couldn't help but smile in response.

'When you grow up, you will have your own adventures, Carlos, and you will meet your own soulmate somewhere along the way…'

* * *

><p>Darkness was falling when they finally returned to the Pierce-Lopez house in suburbia, and from the smell as they entered the foyer, Quinn knew that dinner was not far away. She shooed Carlos upstairs quickly to wash himself up before dinner, and meandered through to the kitchen, startled by its strange mixture of familiarity and unfamiliarity. She was surprised when she entered to see a woman who was neither Brittany or Santana at the kitchen counter.<p>

Fiona Allen, Rachel's publicist, leant casually back against the counter, eyeing the blonde with unveiled suspicion. The years had not changed her, Quinn realised, letting a wry smile curl her lips. Fiona was still the hard bitch that she had always been. That was something that Quinn had to admire about her, that unyielding strength. It didn't make her like her any more, but there was a mutual grudging respect between them.

'So,' Fi's voice was as distant and cool as Quinn remembered her to be, 'you're back.'

Hazel eyes flicked to hers almost dismissively. The two of them alone together… it was too reminiscent to Quinn of a time in her life that she would rather forget, a time when she had been so desperate to make the wrong choice. She had thought that they could be happy, Rachel and she… She had wanted so desperately to be with her. Wanted it too much. But Fi had been right then, she had been the voice of reason that Quinn had found it difficult to allow herself to hear.

'Don't look so worried,' she replied dryly, 'I'll be gone again in a couple of weeks.'

Fiona did not look reassured by the statement. Her impenetrable gaze steadily focused on the blonde who had, for so long, been the source of all her problems.

'Don't do anything stupid whilst you're here, Quinn,' she advised.

'I'm not here for Rachel,' the blonde reiterated firmly, leaning her elbows down on the counter. Fiona scoffed in response, leaning forward to mirror the blonde's posture. If it was meant to make her look intimidating… well, it was working. But Quinn had actively given up being intimidated by other people in med school. Life wasn't long enough for it.

'You are always here for her,' Fiona stated.

Quinn smiled softly.

'Not anymore,' she murmured. And at least part of her believed that it was true. More than ever she knew that you can never undo the past, no matter whether it was shaped by truth or lies.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: thanks for reading. Please review<strong>


	5. Ambition

**AN: a massive thank you to everyone who has reviewed - it really is appreciated. After thinking that I wouldnt be able to update for ages, I ended up travelling for 24 hours with nothing better to do than write - so... here is the next chapter, much earlier than expected. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 5 - Ambition<span>

Rachel's ears rang as she belted out the last note of the song, the soulful climax of the first half of the musical, raising her arms as the audience exploded into applause. She let the noise wash over her, tripping off the buzz of adrenaline that was burning in her veins. Tonight felt different somehow. Almost as though she felt the way that she used to feel when she performed, the rush had gone to her head like a drug. She had them enraptured, and she knew it. That magical feeling when you have ensnared your audience so effectively that they are as malleable as putty. The stagelights reflected off their faces and she _knew_ that she had them, each and every one.

The curtain fell, and as it touched the stage she let herself suck in another breath, allowing a smile at the excited babble of the audience on the other side as they stood for the half time interval. It had been such a long time since she had felt this exhilarated and it took her a moment to gather herself together before turning towards the wings, to head out to her dressing room, away from the burning heat of the stagelights.

'You're on fire tonight, Rachel!' Rob, one of the stagehands, grinned at her as she passed him, and she smiled back, accepting the complement graciously. She didn't know what had changed. It was a mid-week show, nothing special, and lately she had been feeling that the show was stale, that she herself had become numb. But tonight… tonight she felt like herself again, like the girl who had enjoyed performing so much that she would fight tooth and nail for it.

'Good work tonight,' Mel smirked as she handed her a bottle of cold water, as was their nightly routine, 'you have a visitor.'

Rachel paused, unscrewing the cap from the water and taking a long swig from it. 'A visitor?'

'Say's she knows you,' her assistant shrugged, 'something about school and Lima and… well she looks harmless enough.'

'Did she know the password?' Rachel pressed. After the incident with the stalker just under a year ago she had instigated a password system which she stuck to religiously. If she had a dime for every person who claimed to know her, she would be a fucking billionaire.

'I didn't ask,' Mel admitted.

'Well _ask_ her,' the singer instructed as she edged back towards her dressing room, 'if she knows the password then send her in, if not then come back with her name and we will see if she is someone that I _actually_ know. You should know the routine by now, Mel.'

Rachel walked into her dressing room and breathed in the familiar smell of the place, of face powder and stage make-up and hairspray. She caught the view of herself in the mirror and froze. There are moments when you are confronted with your image and do not recognise yourself, and for Rachel, this was such a time. Certainly, it was the same costume she wore every night, the same make up, the same eyes. But when had she started to look like this? When had her eyes crinkled at the edges? When had her toned body started to look so wirey? She wasn't in her early twenties anymore, she wasn't even in her late twenties. She was successful, horribly, garishly successful, she had been showered with awards, three of her albums had gone platinum, everything was just as she had always dreamed. But the routine of it, the routine of Broadway… her life… her strangely isolated life… it was boring to her. And there is nothing worse than having to admit that the dream you thought you would do anything for, the dream that you sacrificed so much for… there is nothing worse than realising that the achievement itself is nothing like what you thought it would be. That in reality, it is not something that you really want at all.

She picked up the powder from the table, with the aim of taking the faint shine of sweat from her features. At least she didn't have a costume change. And she was so engrossed in the task of touching up her make up that she didn't notice when the door to her dressing room opened, didn't notice the presence of another person until there was a faint knock against the open door.

Rachel glanced over her shoulder, her whole body freezing as she caught sight of what she was sure was a mirage. The face powder fell from her fingers, the sound of it hitting the floor and the mess that spread out from it didn't even register in her consciousness.

'You are miraculous.'

Quinn spoke softly, the rasp of her voice so familiar to Rachel's ears.

'I'm imagining you,' Rachel whispered. Quinn shook her head lightly, the warm hazel of her eyes taking in everything, every little detail. As she always did.

'You've been missing our Skype dates,' the blonde said lightly, 'you know I hate it when you stand me up. So I thought that I would tell you off in person…'

Her attempt to lighten the exchange made no impression on Rachel whose skin felt suddenly as though it was burning. The heat of the stagelights was nothing compared to this… her mouth was suddenly dry, and all she wanted to do was cross the distance between them and push Quinn back against that door, press her body against her with every possessive pore, to kiss and bite and scratch at her, claim her. She was finding it hard to breathe. The pressure of the atmosphere in the room seemed to have sucked all the oxygen from it.

She shuddered, reaching for the edge of the dressing table for support. Even after so long, her reaction to the blonde was painfully visceral, she tightened her grip until her knuckles were white. During their last exchange in person Rachel had been furious, she had been crying and screaming and swearing at the blonde. She had thrown things at her, God, she had even slapped her… it was the only time she had ever touched her in anger… It was over two years ago now, but it came flooding back, it all came flooding back so quickly.

'I wanted to see you perform,' Quinn continued, in that same goddamn tone, as though she wasn't affected by Rachel's presence in the slightest, as though nothing had happened between them, as though they really were just the old friends that they pretended to be. It had been two years, and they had built a strange semblance of a friendship across the internet, but it was in this moment that Rachel realised that it was all bullshit. It wasn't friendship that they had built, it was desperation. It was an inability to cut her ties with the woman whose life she had orbited like the earth about the sun. Quinn had hurt her in the worst way possible… but in this moment, she couldn't care less what had happened between them, she wanted nothing more than to be back within the circle of her arms.

'The musical is phenomenal,' the blonde continued, twirling the flower in her fingers. One long stemmed lily, the brilliant pink blending with the white. A stargazer lily. Rachel hadn't noticed it when she had first realised who it was that was watching her from the doorway, but now that she did it was like the knife twisting in her belly.

'And you, as I said, are miraculous,' Q murmured. She held the lily out across the distance between them and Rachel found it hard to swallow against the lump in her throat. Quinn's words had dried up, holding the flower outstretched in offering, watching as Rachel made no move to take it from her.

'Why did you bring it?' Rachel's words tumbled from her lips before she could catch them. The hazel eyes met hers unshielded, and all the swirling emotions that Rachel did not want to see were laid bare to her. There was so much in there that she could not look away.

'You know why,' Quinn replied. And for a moment it felt as though she was looking back through time, to a younger Quinn Fabray holding out a flower to a younger Rachel Berry. If she had known then, what she knew now, how different her life could have been. She reached across the distance to touch the stem, the brush of her fingertips against Quinn's own sending shivers up her arm.

'Thank you,' she murmured.

'_Five minutes!_ Five minutes people!' The shout came from outside, echoing through the halls.

'I think that is my cue to go,' the blonde smiled gently, making a move to leave the room.

'Quinn!' Rachel called before she could process the words. The blonde glanced back, a smile dancing at the corners of her lips. But Rachel couldn't think of the words to follow up her exclamation, just that she didn't want the blonde to go, didn't want her to walk away so easily.

'Have dinner with me tonight,' Q suggested.

'I can't…' she stalled, 'I'm meeting Tom… he's my…'

'Bring him too,' Quinn shrugged, backing out of the doorway, 'Santana is working late – we can all grab dinner together… I'd like to meet your new man.'

She edged out into the corridor without another word, leaving Rachel uncharacteristically speechless in her wake.

* * *

><p>Quinn's hands were trembling by the time that she had made her way back to her seat, sitting alone amongst a crowd. How was it so difficult to see her still? Years had passed, and still, she felt the ache now as freshly as she had when she had been barely an adult. Something about those dark eyes, about the way in which Rachel looked at her. She swallowed against the lump in her throat and sank deeper into the theatre seat, pulling out her phone to fire off a text to her best friend.<p>

_I need you to have dinner with me tonight when you finish work_ – Q

A hush was descending across the crowd with the anticipation of the second half, but Santana was quick to respond.

_I'm still hungover and we already had lunch together – raincheck?_ – S

The blonde rolled her eyes in exasperation.

_I just agreed to have dinner with R and her new fuckbuddy. Please?_ – Q

_Masochist_ – S

_I said please!_ – Q

_You're an idiot_ - S

Quinn shoved the phone back into her bag and sighed, looking up at the stage as the music struck up again, the curtains rising. Maybe she was a masochist. Why else would she come here? Why else would she insist on seeing Rachel when all that would come out of it was pain? Maybe it was that she couldn't keep away. Despite everything that had happened, her body had sung with its urge to touch her, the hairs on the back of her neck rising just by being in the same room. They had pretended to build a friendship, but even now Quinn knew that she had hung on to those moments like a lifeline. An hour every two weeks over Skype. She had convinced herself that she was happy with that, convinced herself that it was all she needed. And her work… God, she had just buried herself in work.

Rachel's voice, unmistakable to her ears, started its rapid crescendo with the climbing melody and Quinn had to close her eyes against it, afraid to look up at the brunette. The tears that wet her eyelashes were not new, but she felt them now as that voice washed over her. The voice of the girl who she would always think of as her own.

* * *

><p>Dinner had started badly, in Santana's opinion, and had rapidly become worse. To be honest, it was pretty funny. Well, it was pretty funny from her perspective, especially now that she had drunk the better part of a bottle of Touraine. From Rachel or Quinn's points of view, it may be less amusing.<p>

'So _you're_ the little girl experiment,' was Tom's opening line when he met Quinn. He said it with a cocky smile, but Quinn had bristled anyway and Rachel, at his side, had flinched.

'And you're the current _boy_ experiment,' Quinn had replied with saccharine sweetness, eyes cold. Quinn had grown up in the years that Santana had known her, she had been through hell and come back from it, damaged but stronger… but it was somewhat reassuring to Santana that Quinn's superbitch could still make an appearance when she felt like it. 'Nice to meet you… is it Tim… or Tom?'

Santana had snorted at that point, and Rachel had shot the blonde a look. Clearly she too recognised her sharpened edge, and knew Quinn well enough to call her on it. There was no way that Quinn didn't recognise the actor, he was rapidly becoming a household name.

'Tom,' Rachel replied pointedly.

Tom didn't seem to notice the tension that was becoming palpable around him. He gave the blonde an unsubtle once over, the cocky smile still in place, 'I can see why she wanted to experiment, Quinn… I would have myself if I had been in her position.'

Quinn's eyes had narrowed dangerously and Santana had taken the moment to nudge her none-too gently, knowing that the next thing that was going to emerge from Quinn's mouth would be less than polite. They hadn't even started dinner yet and she could feel the blonde was spoiling for a fight.

Santana had chosen the restaurant. It was a discreet little place a way off from Broadway that she and Rachel sometimes frequented when they needed to catch up with a good wine list, good service and good vegan options. As they were seated, Santana was struck by the unusual situation. Not in a million years had she imagined that she would have to preside over the awkward reunion between Q and Rachel. And whilst Santana had originally been reluctant to drink anything at all, considering her excesses the night before, after five minutes of enduring the combination of Quinn, Tom and Rachel, she had decided that a bottle or two of wine was going to be essential to survive the evening.

Quinn had essentially behaved herself for most of the meal, and Santana was pleasantly surprised by it. After the initial false start, she had thought that the blonde may well attempt to cut Tom down at the knees, but she was making a valiant effort to be polite and charming, and every time the self-obsessed actor made a comment she found ridiculous, she just smiled indulgently and bit her tongue. Well… she did, until their coffees arrived, and then it went rapidly downhill.

'…there is no future in Broadway,' Tom continued, and Santana was only half listening by this point, somewhat fed-up of hearing the sound of his ingratiating voice. 'There hasn't been for years. Nowadays it is just full of wannabe superstars and washed up actors.'

Santana had barely heard the comment, and later she would think that surely Tom hadn't meant to criticise his girlfriend's profession so bluntly, but the moment he said it, the atmosphere shifted. Quinn's charming façade faltered, and with just a tilt of her head, she took on the dangerous aura that she had developed in high school. Q had always been a bit ruthless when it came to defending Rachel.

'Didn't you and Rachel meet on the set of Les Miserables?' the blonde asked pointedly, an edge to her tone. Rachel twitched uncomfortably, and Santana was surprised that she hadn't spoken up to defend her profession herself. Usually Rachel was more than vocal about things that she cared about.

'Of course, I didn't mean the guest stars like me,' Tom amended, 'Broadway shows always have stints of popularity when they hire a Hollywood name for a couple of weeks. The popularity of Les Miz tripled for the two weeks that I was with it, didn't it, pumpkin?'

'Well…' Rachel started to reply diplomatically.

'Sounds like the size of your ego did, too,' Quinn muttered none-too quietly. Santana kicked her under the table, but the blonde pretended not to have noticed.

'So you consider yourself pretty successful, Tom?' the blonde asked dangerously.

'He _is_ successful,' Rachel jumped in sharply, again recognising the tone.

'I have been nominated for _three_ awards for my films in the last two years alone,' he stated smugly, 'if you don't consider that success, Quinn, then I don't know what is.'

The blonde scoffed. 'Maybe winning them?' she suggested with a smile. Santana kicked her friend again sharply under the table, shooting her a reproving look. Quinn flinched but looked totally unrepentant. This time it was Tom's expression that faltered.

'Well, I don't think I can take comments on success from someone who is fucking around getting a tan in some third-world wasteland on the other side of the planet,' he stated bluntly.

'You say that as if you know anything about it,' Quinn replied.

'I know enough to say that you aren't exactly working as a neurosurgeon out there, are you? It's not going to be bringing in _big_ money?'

'I think that you have had enough to drink, Tom,' Rachel cut in, taking the glass of wine away from him deftly and placing it on the other side of the table. But they all knew that the damage was already done, and the evening was unravelling into a complete mess.

'Isn't money a pretty _juvenile_ way of measuring success, Tom?' Quinn didn't seem ready to let it go.

'If you don't measure it by money then what do you measure it by? I have _four_ houses, Quinn. _Money_ gave me that. I have a fucking yacht. And _three_ cars, including a fucking Lamborghini. I fly all over the world filming and promoting my films, and the crowds flock to me like I am a _god_ to them. _That_ is success. That is fucking success. There is nothing that can compare to that in your little third-world stink-hole.'

He delivered the lines as though it was one of his scripts, the slightly slurred edge to his words dwarfed by the impassioned speech. Quinn raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

'You're a shallow, self-obsessed son-of-a-bitch,' the blonde stated, a small smile playing on her lips, which was anything but friendly. 'And I really hope that the sex is good, because I can't imagine any other reason that Rachel would want to associate herself with such a brainless bigot.'

'If this is about you wanting to have sex with me, Quinn, I told you…' he started before being rapidly cut off.

'I already have one arsehole in my pants, _thank you_, I don't need you as well,' Quinn shot back crudely. And with that comment, he finally lost his temper.

'I don't have to stay and listen to this shit,' he snapped, standing up so abruptly that Rachel had to catch her wineglass as he knocked the table. Quinn settled back in her chair, with a slightly smug expression. Santana would feel slightly guilty for it later, but she was almost enjoying the verbal spar that Q was winning.

'That's fine,' the blonde said sweetly, 'you have my permission to leave.'

'Tom…' Rachel tried to pacify him, but he was already storming out of the restaurant, shoulders tense. The singer gathered her bag as calmly as she could, shooting a hard glare across the table at her ex-girlfriend. 'That was fucking rude, Quinn.'

The blonde shrugged irritably. 'He started it…'

'Very mature, Fabray,' Santana laughed, 'why do I feel that I should put you in time-out like I do with my son?'

Rachel stood up to follow her boyfriend, digging into her purse to find some cash to put towards the bill. Quinn waved her off drunkenly.

'I've got this, Rachel,' she said dismissively, looking almost contrite as the brunette glared at her. 'Seriously. Just… go be with your man.'

Rachel looked ready to say something, her dark eyes drawn, as always, towards the blonde. But instead she just shook her head. Turning from them to walk out the restaurant without another word.

Quinn watched her go, her expression unreadable, and Santana felt herself ache for them. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the rollercoaster of being back in Quinn's sharp company. She had missed her, truly missed her, missed the little group that they had all been together, she and Brittany, Rachel and Q.

'Well, that was a marvellous success,' Santana stated dryly, 'you have a real talent for fucking things up, you know?'

'Oh come on, Santana, his teeth are brighter than he is… I don't know how Rachel finds such idiots.'

Not that she had ever had to do anything other than listen to Rachel talk about her boyfriends before. It was always going to be hard to meet one of them.

'You're a real bitch, Q,' the Latina laughed affectionately.

'You say that like it's a bad thing,' Quinn replied, draining her glass. The evening had left her feeling hollow and already homesick for the balmy nights on the other side of the world. Absently she wished herself back there, where everything remained easily buried beneath distance and denial.

* * *

><p>Behind her, across her bed, Tom lay sprawled, his naked body half-covered by a sheet. Usually Rachel would feel irritable about the amount of space that he took, spread out like that. She hated sharing a bed with someone as she needed her own space in order to sleep, but at this very moment, sleep itself was far from her mind. Her apartment was quiet, looking out over the lights of New York but dulled to the sounds and smell of it.<p>

Sleep eluded her tonight, her thoughts circling torturously. She had drawn back the curtains, letting the greyish light into the darkness of her bedroom as she sat in her dressing gown at the end of her bed, unable to draw her eyes away from the single flower she had placed in the long vase in the centre of her dressing table. A stargazer lily. The vibrant pink between the white and the red of it distorted by the unusual nature of the light. She couldn't look away from it, as much as she wished she could. In the way of memories, they were twisted and coloured by what had happened since. But some things she felt that she remembered clearly, some things never faded from memory. And in the middle of the night, awake in the dark, Rachel let herself remember.

* * *

><p><strong>Lima. 2011.<strong>

'_We did it! We did it! We did it!' _

_Kurt's voice was shrill as he bounced around the dressing room backstage behind the school theatre, his make up slightly creepily twisting his features to those of Emcee, the Master of Ceremonies of the Kit Kat club. He pulled Rachel into a hug and they jumped up and down in their excitement, the euphoria of the performance rushing through their veins. _

'_We did it!'_

_He pulled away to catch his breath, the rest of the cast swarming into the communal dressing room in a haze of excitement, the exhilaration of the performance, the opening night, buoying them up._

'_After the disaster of the dress rehearsal this afternoon, I thought that we were done for,' Kurt admitted, the grin permanently plastered on his face, 'but that was phenomenal. They went mad. We had a standing ovation at the end, did you see that? A standing ovation, Rachel!'_

_She couldn't keep the smile off her face in answer to his excitement._

'_Well you make a wonderful Emcee,' she laughed._

'_And you make a fabulous Sally Bowles, my dear,' he countered, 'first Lima, then Broadway… then the World!'_

_His enthusiasm was infectious. _

'_The World!' she laughed. And with the exhilaration from that performance she felt that she could truly conquer the world. She could walk on water. She could fly…. She could fucking fly. _

'_I left my water in the theatre wings,' she said, 'I'm just going to grab it.'_

'_Hurry back – we are all going out,' Kurt replied, turning to the mirrors to grab some make up remover, 'and I don't want to wait forever for you to change.'_

_She weaved through the swarms of people, meandering back to the wings of the stage that were now almost deserted. Rachel spotted the bottle of Evian in the corner, surprised that she had forgotten it at all – water was like a drug to her and she always had a bottle of it on her. She probably single-handedly kept Evian in business. _

'_You are miraculous.'_

_She recognised the voice instantly, the soft, raspy voice, and turned delighted, on the spot to grin at the blonde haired girl who was walking towards her, the graceful way that she moved was unmistakable. The light was dim now that the stagelights were off, and Rachel could barely make out her features, just the proud smile on her face. _

'_I thought that you had cheerleading practice tonight,' Rachel stated with surprise, her heart thudding harder, as it did every time the cheerleader appeared. _

'_I wouldn't have missed your opening night, Rach,' Quinn replied, 'not for all the world.'_

_And as she stepped closer, into the shaft of light that cut through the curtains, Rachel realised that Quinn was holding out a flower tentatively to her. Slowly she reached out to take it, her fingers closing around the stem, her breath catching. It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful flower that she had ever seen, a mixture of red and pink and white, the fragrance of it was heady as she breathed it in. _

'_I've never seen one of these before,' she murmured, breathing in the fragrance once again. _

'_It's a stargazer lily,' Quinn replied tentatively, almost shyly, 'my florist says that it means ambition. But she could be lying...'_

'_It's beautiful,' Rachel whispered, and suddenly she was aware of the cheerleader stepping closer and a shiver of anticipation ran across her skin as she met the hazel gaze. _

'_You're beautiful,' Quinn's soft lips were close to her own. _

'_You're a smooth talker, Fabray,' she quipped, but the flower fell from her fingers as the blonde cupped her cheek in one soft hand and pressed their lips together. Quinn's body pressed flush against her own, pushing her back against the wall, the urgency of the kiss setting her skin alight. And the exhilaration of the opening night faded in comparison to the euphoria of this. She grabbed at the blonde's hips, pulling her closer, kissing her hungrily. As Quinn started to pull away, Rachel reached around the back of her neck and pulled her back to her lips, tangling her fingers in the beautiful long blonde hair. Her stage make up smudged, her hair tangled, but she couldn't care less. The chills that ran through her were electrifying. _

_Quinn had been her girlfriend for only three months, and they were still so new to each other… but it terrified and thrilled Rachel just how strongly she felt for the blonde. _

_It was like she never wanted to let her go. _

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

'You'res a fuuucking idiot,' Santana slurred, her arm looped over Quinn's shoulder as the blonde navigated them into her hotel room. 'For someone sooooo smart you'res an idiot.'

'Shut up, Santana.'

In hindsight, maybe the shots at the bar after the disaster of dinner hadn't been a good idea.

She paused in the middle of the room, glancing between the couch and the bed, undecided as to where she would throw her drunken friend. After a moment's hesitation she pushed San towards the bed. The Latina sat down on the edge of it with a thud and blinked widely up at Quinn for a moment, making no move to undress herself.

'I miss Brittany,' she said desolately and Quinn sighed. It had not really been her intention to drink Santana into a morose state of mind, but to blank out her own thoughts and feelings. She knelt down on the floor and started to take off her best friend's shoes. The alcohol buzz had quickly left her own bloodstream, and all she felt now was empty and exhausted.

'I know,' she whispered, carefully undressing Santana as she would a child, which was easier than she would imagine that it could be. 'Arms up, San.'

She slipped one of her t-shirts over the brunette's head.

'I can't see… I just… Quinn, I can't see how we can… how we can make it work again. She's changed. I changed… Too much has been said and unsaid… I just…' Santana's cheeks were wet with tears as Quinn guided her to lie back down, pulling the covers over her, and gently rolling her onto her side, stroking back the dark hair from her face.

'It will work out,' she promised quietly, placing a kiss on her best friend's brow, 'it will work out, San.'

The large dark eyes blinked open, focussing on her intently for a moment before blinking shut again. And in her heart, Quinn prayed that things would work out. It was too important to her for them not to. She made to turn away, to go towards the couch, not feeling the slightest bit tired, when Santana's fingers closed around her hand.

'I love you, Fabray,' the Latina murmured sleepily into the pillow, 'even if you are a total idiot… I love you...'

Quinn squeezed the fingers gently, before tucking Santana's hand back under the covers.

'You too, Lopez,' she whispered, flipping off the light at the wall.

Maybe it was jetlag. Maybe it was being in New York… the city that never sleeps, but insomnia had claimed her. She leant against the window for a moment, looking out into the lights of the city she had abandoned years before. New York had never really been her city, it had been Rachel's. She was the only reason Quinn had ever come here.

She turned away from the window and settled onto the couch, lying down in her clothes, just to stare unseeing at the ceiling. Maybe it was fear that had her reluctant to close her eyes. Fear that her dreams would be haunted more than her waking moments by images and feelings she wished that she could simply leave behind. Far too many of them were bittersweet. Too often she had awoken hopeful after her dreams had swept her back into the past.

Santana snored quietly on her bed and Quinn rubbed at her eyes, questioning the wisdom, once again, of coming back. She wished she could drink herself into a dreamless sleep, and just let it take her away.

* * *

><p><strong>Lima. 2011. <strong>

'_Are you sure you're ready?' Her words were hesitant, and Quinn had to calm the nerves that were fluttering in her belly as she asked the question. Rachel was chewing on her bottom lip, but there was a playfulness in her eyes that shot a feeling through Quinn that she had come to recognise as desire. _

'_More than ready,' Rachel replied with that same smile._

'_You're sure you don't want to wait?' the blonde pressed, sitting cross-legged on her bed as she looked up at her girlfriend who leant against her desk._

'_Are you sure _you_ don't?' Rachel reflected the question back to her._

'_I just want you to be sure,' the blonde defended herself. Rachel smiled at her girlfriend, pushing herself up to stand at the bottom of Quinn's bed, and then she started to slowly unbutton her shirt, nimble fingers running over her own skin, slowly and steadily removing her own clothes. Quinn's words dried up on her tongue as she watched, entranced, as piece by piece Rachel's clothes fell to the floor._

'_I want nothing more than to make love to you,' the brunette whispered. Quinn licked her lips, her heart pounding. _

'_Come here,' she whispered back. And as Rachel climbed onto the bottom of the bed, Quinn raised herself up onto her knees as well, meeting her halfway and pulling the brunette's body firmly against her own, kissing her. Their movements were hesitant that night, shy and reverent of each other's bodies, both so familiar and yet unfamiliar. Each touch was soft, each kiss careful and intense with meaning. It was with innocence that they made love that first time, long into the early hours of the morning. And finally, with Rachel curled into her side, Quinn had stared up into the darkness of the room and replayed every second of it in her mind, committing every moment to memory, her heart fluttering in her chest. She had never felt to content before, as though she had finally found a place where she belonged – with Rachel in her arms._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: thank you for reading - please review if you have time.<strong>


	6. Faithfully

**AN: thank you for your reviews - they are greatly appreciated. A little more of the background unravels in this one, so hopefully it won't end up being too confusing as it slowly emerges. It is based in a semi-AU universe.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 6 - Faithfully<span>

It was another glorious spring morning as Brittany arrived at the central Manhattan offices. The receptionist smiled at her and just waved her through to the meeting rooms; the usual bouncy blonde was a well-known face here and had become quickly liked among the staff. But today, Brittany's smile was even more forced than it had been the week before. Two people circled through her thoughts and she wasn't sure which was upsetting her more… Quinn was back. And though part of her was more than thrilled to see the woman who had been so special to her for so long, she was now weighed down with the magnitude of her decision to go ahead with the documentary. The decision was not one that she could undo, but its potential repercussions were frightening her and had kept her awake most of the night. And to compound the matter, the one person who she had always relied on for support was pulling away. Santana had not come home last night. Sure, Quinn had sent her a drunkenly misspelt message to say that her wife was going to stay with her in her hotel room, but the lack of the Latina in the house unsettled her. There had once been a time that Brittany would have sworn on her life that Santana would never cheat on her, but now… now she wasn't so sure. And the prospect of it was torturous.

'You're looking very serious today,' Simon stated as he entered the room, self-assured in his tailored suit. Brittany forced another smile.

'I feel serious,' she replied sadly, '_life_ feels serious, right now.'

'It's normal to feel anxious at this stage,' he replied, gesturing for her to sit at the end of the long, empty conference table, as he poured her a glass of water, taking just one ice cube to place in it. The gesture was not lost on her. They had worked together for many weeks now, and he had subtly started to cater for all her habits. 'The media storm is about to kick off, and you are about to unleash your creation onto the world, vulnerable to comment and criticism... and I'm sure that there will be plenty of both. If you weren't anxious now, then you wouldn't be human, Brittany.'

She accepted the water gratefully, but felt no better at his words. The inevitability of what was going to happen in the next few weeks was like torture. She had finally achieved everything that she had wished that she could. _The Young Idealist_ would premiere in New York in eight weeks, London in twelve… it would be available across the western world for anyone and everyone to view. And she knew, more than ever, that she needed to tell Quinn, she _had_ to tell Quinn. In fact, it was a miracle that Santana and Rachel hadn't told her themselves, especially Rachel who had refused to speak to her for the last twelve weeks because of this very point.

'Quinn is back in New York,' she said softly. She hadn't meant to come out with it, but her mouth had moved before she had thought to stop it.

'Excellent,' Simon looked genuinely happy as he leant against the window sill, sipping at his expresso. 'That is fantastic news. I look forward to meeting her… though I feel that I know her already.'

Brittany bit her lip.

'We will need to get her involved with our interview preparation team… the process can be quite overwhelming, particularly to people who aren't in the industry. Do you think that she can be persuaded to stay for the premiere?'

Brittany blinked back tears that had sprung unexpectedly to her eyes, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

'She doesn't know,' she murmured.

Simon stopped, a small frown furrowing his brow as he seemed to feel that he had misheard her, or at least, misunderstood. Brittany glanced away, and then focussed her eyes on him again.

'Simon, she doesn't know,' she repeated, her voice slightly stronger this time.

'Doesn't know what?' he echoed. Brittany laughed humourlessly.

'Anything,' she replied, standing up and looking anywhere but his face, 'she doesn't know anything. About the project, about the documentary… anything. I wanted to tell her, I kept on trying to psych myself up to talk to her about it… but I never could do it. I knew what her reaction would be.'

'But… the disclaimers, the legal documents…'

'I signed them,' Brittany shrugged, 'I know it's wrong, and I know that I shouldn't have, but I just _couldn't_…'

'Those were _legal documents_,' Simon hissed, 'you can't just forge legal documents. She could absolutely bury us if…'

'She wouldn't,' Brittany cut him off with certainty. 'She would never do anything to hurt me.'

He fixed her with a hard gaze, his face a mask of anger.

'How can you know that? She could absolutely have us over a barrel if she wanted…'

'She wouldn't,' Brittany insisted.

Simon looked at her seriously, clearly trying to control himself.

'You _have_ to tell her,' he insisted firmly.

'I know,' she admitted.

'No, _really_ Brittany,' he repeated, 'you need to tell her and you need to get her to sign those documents before the publicity starts, because once it starts there is no turning back. This could cost the studio millions...'

And somehow with his words, Brittany felt the heat of her own tears on her cheeks, uncertain as to whether they were because of Quinn or Santana or this stupid situation she had managed to get herself into. And before she knew it, Simon's arms were around her, his tall frame holding her gently to his body which felt so unfamiliar.

'I'm sorry I yelled,' he murmured against her hair, 'I'm sorry, Brittany.'

And despite the awkwardness of the situation, and how she knew that she should break away from him, she found that she had no desire to. She just let herself cry those tears of frustration in his arms.

* * *

><p>'She said <em>what?<em>' Kurt's voice was scandalised on the other end of the phone and Rachel glowered down at her orange juice again as she relived the conversation from the night before almost word for word.

'I'm not saying it again, it's too crude,' she replied irritably. 'She was pure Q, calculated and cutthroat from the start.'

'And _funny_,' Kurt chimed in from the other end of the phone, 'I wish that I had been there.'

'It's not funny, Kurt,' she objected, standing up from the coffee table to pace over to the window.

'Of course it is,' he replied, a smirk in his tone, 'even from your account it sounds like Tom was being a total dick, and that Q cut him down. Good for her.'

Rachel pursed her lips. Kurt had never liked Tom, she knew that, but she had at least thought that he would support her outrage about Quinn's manners with the actor. There was a pause on the line, and she could imagine Kurt, across town, pinning or sketching or something, carefully adjusting his hands-free kit.

'Maybe you should figure out why you're pissed off, Rachel,' he suggested after a moment, 'people act according to their natures. You can't be angry at the lion if it attacks the prey that you put in front of it... particularly if the prey taunts it. Or are you pissed that everyone acted the way you anticipated that they would last night? That Tom was an ass and Quinn defended herself, and you. So she hasn't changed… she was never going to. You shouldn't have expected her to.'

She stared out of the window, looking at the beautiful Manhattan landscape that usually left her stunned. But today it was different. Today Quinn was down there somewhere. Walking again amongst the crowds, smiling, laughing, interacting with the New Yorkers... And it reminded Rachel of how she had felt three years ago, when Quinn had first come back to her, when she had been hooked once again on the addictiveness of Q Fabray. And following such a high, her life had tumbled out of control when things had turned sour. They still featured in her mind as some of her best memories, when she had been on the brink of fame and she had been in love, intoxicatingly, irrationally in love. The memory brought a tightness in her chest.

'I can't do this again,' she said finally, her voice a whisper, 'I can't.'

'No one is asking you to do anything,' Kurt replied gently, 'the past is the past, Rachel. No one can go back to it, or the decisions you made. All I'm saying is that Quinn is _always_ going to be special to you, and you are _always_ going to be special to her. No matter what happened after, and the paths that your lives took, you belonged to her first… and she belonged to you. She is here for two weeks. Two weeks, Rachel. Don't waste the time that you have by being angry about things that really don't matter. You don't know when you may have the opportunity to see her again.'

* * *

><p><strong>Lima. 2012. <strong>

_Quinn placed the book down on the coffee table with an irritated sigh. She had re-read the same page a hundred times, but couldn't concentrate on the words, or the meaning. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. 23.37. Usually she enjoyed her evenings here, surrounded by the paraphernalia of another life, of baby powder and soft toys, of innocence. She glanced at the baby-monitor as she stood, listening for the occasional gurgling that Beth made in her sleep. Quinn loved the little girl more than she thought possible, that special feeling that she kept close to her heart, a quiet, certain place that no one but Beth could reach. _

_Her phone buzzed on the counter and she reached for it, knowing instinctively who it was. She paused a moment before reading the message. _

Missing you tonight, baby. I'm going to sleep. Can we please talk about this tomorrow? I hate arguing with you. Love._ - R_

_She sighed and placed the phone down on the counter. She hated arguing with Rachel as well. It unsettled her. Instead of going back to her book, Quinn meandered around the room, looking at the photos and ornaments that Shelby kept out, thinking absently of the kind of house that Beth was going to grow up in. She wasn't naïve enough to think that she would be part of Beth's life for very long, not in an everyday kind of way, but the connection with the little girl, her little girl, had already been forged. _

_It was as she wandered aimlessly through the rooms that she stumbled across the old photo-album, half hidden under the coffee table. Quinn hesitated only a moment before opening it. Thinking briefly of the violation of privacy that she was committing. What she found was not what she was expecting. Instead of photos, the album was filled with old playbills, hundreds of them, dated back from the nineties, and in all of them, somewhere the name Shelby Corocan was printed in fading ink. Gently, Quinn ran her fingers over the old printed paper, carefully turning the pages. _

_When she heard the door open twenty minutes later she hurried to put the album back where she found it and stood, trying not to look guilty as she walked through to meet Shelby in the kitchen. _

'_Hey,' Quinn greeted with a smile, leaning against the counter, 'how was your night?' _

_She had always had a little bit of a girl-crush on Shelby Corocan, nothing that she had ever thought much about, but something that she had noticed nonetheless. The woman had poise, and talent, and the fact that she was the image of her girlfriend in twenty years time may have had something to do with it. She had always thought of Shelby as a teacher, as Rachel's biological mother, as Beth's… but she had never really seen her as a woman. Never really seen her as a girl, like Rachel, who had lived with hopes and dreams and aspirations that had come to nothing in the end, despite her talent. But the careful collection of playbills, preserved in that album, changed the way that Quinn saw the woman before her now. _

'_Wonderful,' the brunette smiled, eyeing the young blonde that she had slowly come to trust, 'thank you for agreeing to babysit at such short notice, Quinn. I really do appreciate it…'_

'_Don't thank me,' Quinn replied, 'you know that I love spending time with her. She was a little angel.'_

_Shelby nodded, 'she always is. I don't know what I'm going to do when you leave for College next year… Have you heard back yet? Do you know where you are going?'_

_Quinn's smile became slightly forced at the question. She had heard back, she had heard back just this week, from both Yale and NYU. Hence the argument with Rachel. The on-going argument. Quinn was drawn to Yale, but Rachel wanted her to go to NYU. _

'_Two offers to major in Drama,' she replied, 'one from Yale, the other NYU – at Tisch.'_

'_That's fantastic,' Shelby had the enthusiasm that her younger counterpart lacked._

'_Yeah,' Quinn shrugged, unable to muster her own happiness at the choice. 'It's a big decision.'_

_Shelby surveyed her thoughtfully, sensing the change in mood of the reserved blonde. Though they didn't ever speak of Rachel, Shelby was far from oblivious of the relationship between her biological daughter and the girl in front of her. Both so young, in her opinion. Too young to be so invested in each other. _

'_You'll make the right decision, Quinn,' she advised earnestly, 'you will. You are young and beautiful and smart… you have your whole life ahead of you. And you have to take these opportunities when they arise. Do what feels right to you. Sometimes the hardest decisions have a way of working themselves out…'_

_Quinn nodded thoughtfully. 'Thank you,' she murmured. 'I hope so… I should probably get going…'_

_And as Quinn gathered her things together to leave, Shelby thought of the other girl, of Rachel and what decisions she had to face. She tried not to think of Rachel often, the daughter who was not her daughter, the girl whose childhood she had missed. When she was younger, she had never imagined that she would regret her actions, she had never thought of how priorities change, or how seeing Rachel sing had cracked something within her. It had been like looking back through time, and she had changed irrevocably from that moment, with the hollowness of knowing that she had missed everything of her girl's development. It was something that she would regret forever. _

_Quinn turned. 'Shelby, do you mind if I ask you something?' _

_Shelby tried to snap herself out of her thoughts, focussing on the pretty blonde she had been so impressed with when they had first met. The girl who in turn infuriated and exasperated her._

'_Go ahead,' she smiled._

'_Why did you leave Broadway?'_

_The question, when it came, was not one that she had anticipated. It was not something that she had been asked in a long time, and the reasons, which had once been so clear and simple, were muddled. It felt like a lifetime ago. _

'_Broadway. Broadway is hard, very hard,' she started, finding her thoughts difficult to articulate, 'you need to be single-minded, and focussed… you need no distractions, because every single minute of every day needs to be geared towards Broadway, and success. Because everyone is so talented that no one is, and everyone is so special that none of you are. I left because I couldn't do it anymore. It sucks you dry.'_

_Quinn nodded thoughtfully at the words, and Shelby knew that both of them were thinking of Rachel, of her hopes and dreams, of her big talent and her vulnerability. The future was, as yet, unwritten. _

_As Quinn drove home, her thoughts circled those words… the words and the album of old playbills. By the time she reached her driveway, she had made her decision, and her heart was hammering with it as she typed out the text to her girlfriend who would get it when she awoke. _

I'll come to New York. I'll reject Yale. I think it's the right decision_. – Q_

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

Laura had been in the middle of a consultation when she heard the commotion start outside her office door. The voice unmistakable as it reached a crescendo; Rachel Berry was shouting at her receptionist, and though she held an uncommon affection for the talented young woman, she felt a surge of irritation.

'Excuse me,' she said to her client, walking deliberately to the door, and slipping out.

'What _on earth_ is going on?' she demanded in a deceptively calm voice, focussing on the diminutive brunette. Her receptionist relaxed, though she continued to glare at the singer, her face red from the commotion.

'I need to see you,' the diva stated pleadingly, 'I really do…'

'I'm fully booked today, as I'm sure Susan told you.'

'Please Laura, I really need to see you,' Rachel urged. 'Just half an hour. Anything.'

Laura was ready to refuse her, but then she saw something in those deep, dark brown eyes that she hadn't quite recognised before. A surge of curiousity mixed with compassion and reluctantly she relented.

'Half an hour at one o'clock,' she agreed, pursing her lips, 'but this is your only warning, Miss Berry… don't cause disruptions in my offices again.'

* * *

><p>At one o'clock, she steepled her fingers as Rachel sipped on mint tea from her favourite position in the bucket chair. The singer seemed unsettled, her eyes bloodshot.<p>

'Quinn is back,' the diva started bluntly, her usually confident voice was for once quiet. The name was one that was familiar to their sessions, always on the periphery of the topics under discussion, but studiously avoided as a topic in herself, avoided so stubbornly that Laura had stopped trying to probe into Rachel's feelings regarding the woman.

'And she is causing your meltdown?' Laura raised an eyebrow.

'Quinn is the cause of all my meltdowns,' Rachel sighed ruefully. 'She always has been.'

Laura leant back in her chair. This moment had been a long time in coming, and she was reluctant for them to rush it despite their limited time.

'You often allude to this _Quinn_ character, but you never speak about her,' she finally commented, 'did she hurt you so much, Rachel, that you _can't_ speak about her?'

The brunette looked away, focussing on the thick pile of the carpet beneath her feet. Hurt was funny word to use; it didn't feel like hurt. It felt like she had killed a part of her. That after Quinn had left the last time, Rachel hadn't been able to recognise herself anymore. That every action since that time was hollow and numb.

'I don't know where to start when speaking about her,' Rachel admitted, with a humourless smile. 'Our lives have been so intertwined for so long, that I forget where she ends and I begin… I told her, when we were five years old, that I would marry her. I told my parents too, my fathers. I learnt to write her name, and I surrounded it with stars. Gold stars.'

She could picture it now. Her Daddy had kept it amongst piles of her childhood things, he had brought it out to show her once, years ago. She had never shown Quinn, irrationally embarrassed by her childhood self. Now she wished that she had held onto it, touched the innocent lines and ripped it up.

'You were best friends?' Laura asked gently, snapping her from her thoughts.

'Never friends,' she replied honestly. But how do you explain a relationship of the type they had developed without cheapening it, without ruining it by talking of it. 'We became lovers in high school. Girlfriends. She was the first person I ever loved. The first person that I ever wanted… the only person…'

Laura nodded slowly. 'A first love is very powerful. It touches us in our formative years. It is full of idealism, of intensity and innocence. They are strong feelings, and they can be overwhelming, even years after the romance fades.'

'Quinn broke it off,' Rachel swallowed, thinking back to that time after high school, thinking of the tragedy that had rocked through both of their lives, how it had shattered the girl she had loved. It still gave her chills as she thought about it. 'But it's more complicated than that. She pushed me away. Pushed me to New York. And I was angry, so, so angry with her… we didn't even speak for over a year.'

Laura cocked her head, her eyes focussed intently on her client. 'But you did, eventually, get back in touch?'

'She used to send me flowers, even when we weren't talking. I always knew that she was thinking about me. Every opening night of every production, I would find a flower waiting for me, a stargazer lily, just like the first,' Rachel sipped on her tea, raising her eyes to meet Laura's, tears glistening. 'Years passed us by, and she made herself a success, she always was smart… She only did medicine because of the guilt, she felt so guilty for so long, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into it.'

'She's the doctor in Brittany's documentary?' Laura asked softly. Rachel nodded.

'She makes a wonderful doctor,' she admitted with a small smile that faded quickly. 'She came to New York three years ago, just when my career on Broadway was starting to kick off. We became lovers again, older and different. It wasn't innocent anymore. There was something about Quinn that always swept me off my feet, just in the way that she looks at me… I always felt that I was the only person in the world to her. It was the happiest time of my life, that year with her…'

Laura didn't ask the question that Rachel knew she was thinking. She took a deep breath. So it did hurt, whenever she said it, it hurt. As though the knife was still buried somewhere inside, as though Quinn was still twisting it.

'She cheated on me,' Rachel whispered. 'She cheated on me, and I told her to get the hell out of my life… and she did. She went as far as she could go.'

Rachel brushed at the tears that were mutinously falling from her lashes. She had long ago sworn not to cry over this anymore. Not to cry over Quinn Fabray.

'That was two years ago,' she said softly, 'and until last night, I hadn't seen her in person since the day I told her to leave.'

* * *

><p><strong>AN: thank you for reading. Please review if you have the time.<strong>


	7. Turning

**AN: Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter - I like the speculation over what has happened in the past, and the different views on it, but I'm not going to give anything away yet. ;-) I'm glad that people are still reading this and getting involved. Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed - it is very much appreciated!**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 7 - Turning on the wheel<span>

**Lima. 2012. **

_Rachel was first aware of the warmth of the body next to hers, the silken skin against which she smiled. Her muscles ached pleasantly from the activities of the night before, and she smirked in her happy haze as she thought languidly of all she had done to the naked body beside hers, and all that Quinn had done to her. Those hazel eyes had been so dark with want that it made Rachel melt a little just to think of it. That look made her heart trip on its own beat._

_She stretched lazily, rolling over and opening an eye, only to see her girlfriend watching her with amusement._

_'I totally knocked you out, huh?' Quinn smirked, a hint of pride in her voice._

_'Don't get cocky, Fabray,' Rachel yawned, before snuggling back into Quinn's side. The blonde was sitting up in bed, a familiar book resting on her lap._

_'I totally did,' the blonde laughed, leaning down to kiss Rachel's forehead. The brunette grumbled in response._

_'I don't think I can move,' she groaned, 'my legs are like jelly.'_

_'You don't have to move,' Quinn replied, 'it's Sunday. It's meant to be a day of rest.'_

_'Hmmmf,' Rachel burrowed herself closer, resting her head on her girlfriend's chest. She traced a finger across Quinn's abdomen, against the soft, smooth skin, the taught muscles beneath. Their lovemaking was gentle; it was impassioned, but innocent. Innocent and young in the way that they touched each other, in the way that they spoke to each other and kissed. But underneath the surface, Rachel could sense something else developing, like a half-formed thought she hadn't quite figured out. It felt dangerous, and exciting, and not entirely unfamiliar, something that was part of her but beyond her too. Her own desire was not something she had ever thought to explore. Not before Quinn had started looking at her like that, with those darkening hazel eyes. She frowned to herself as she traced her fingertip across the skin._

_'Are you still trying to read Carmina Burana?' she asked after a moment, having felt the blonde's attention shift back to the book in her hands. There was a hint of mocking in her voice that Quinn chose to ignore._

'Trying_ to,' the blonde replied, 'but every time I settle down with this book, you interrupt me.'_

_'You like my interruptions, dork,' Rachel smirked again. It was one of her favourite teasing points for the blonde, that beneath the cool façade was a secret geek. In Rachel's (humble) opinion, no one in their right mind pretended to enjoy trying to read Latin. And certainly no one in High School. So what if Mr Schue had recommended it to Quinn before her interviews for college… And Rachel was all for anything that got Quinn into Tisch, but she couldn't see how reading the 200 plus poems would be of any benefit in understanding the music that came from them. It was a waste of time. Just as reading any Shakespeare beynd Othello was a waste. However her opinion on this topic had already been voiced on a few occasions, and Q had politely told her to shut the hell up about it._

_'Am I going to have to knock you out again to get some peace?' Quinn asked lightly, ignoring her jib. But the joking question sent a ripple of desire through Rachel, and she found herself looking up hopefully._

_'You're insatiable,' Quinn rolled her eyes._

_'And that surprises you?' Rachel asked, swiftly rolling over to straddle the blonde's waist, an injection of energy flushing through her._

_'Two minutes ago you couldn't move,' the blonde reminded her, her hazel eyes playful. Rachel plucked the book from her fingers and threw it onto the floor, biting her lip before leaning down to kiss her girlfriend._

_'Clearly I got over it,' she said, placing butterfly kisses across the blonde's collar bone. 'Can you honestly tell me that you have learnt anything from that silly book?'_

_'I _have_ actually,' Quinn looked smug._

_'Oh really?'_

_'You don't believe me?' Quinn raised her eyebrow and Rachel paused in her kisses, giving her girlfriend a calculating look._

_'You're the best liar I know, Quinn Fabray,' she replied seriously, 'sometimes even I can't tell.'_

_The comment didn't hurt, not really. It just stung a little. Quinn had learnt to lie from an early age; both she and Franny could consider it a survival trait._

_'You can always tell,' Quinn replied with certainty. Rachel was observant, maybe she was only observant of Quinn, but she was certainly observant. And out of anyone in the world, Rachel was probably the only one who could see through her. Rachel and Santana. It came with a certain relief that they could see her, the real her, not buried in layers and misconceptions. It was a vulnerability, but one that she could enjoy somehow._

_'Only when I can see your eyes,' Rachel said, 'you get this certain look when you lie... Without that, I'm as lost as everyone else.'_

_Quinn brought her hands up to cup the brunettes face, and brought her in for a kiss. It was delicate, and the way that Quinn touched her, with such care, sent shivers across Rachel's skin. She couldn't get enough._

_'You want me to prove to you that I have learnt something?' Quinn whispered against her lips._

_'If you can, Fabray,' Rachel challenged._

_'Fine.'_

_The hazel eyes took on that superior look that made Rachel melt, and in an instant the delicacy of Quinn's touch was gone. Instead, Rachel found herself flipped over onto her back, her surprise compounded by the predatory sound that emerged from Quinn's throat as she tangled them both in the bed sheets. The blonde was strong, a feminine kind of lean strength that came from years of relentless routine and physical exercise._

_'Ama me fideliter,' Quinn's tongue shaped the foreign words in such a way that made Rachel's heart rate increase. She reached up for her girlfriend. 'Fidem meam noto.' Gently Quinn took her wrists in her hands and pinned them to the mattress. 'De corde totaliter.' She leant closer, the blonde hair brushing tantalisingly against Rachel's skin. 'Et ex mente tota.' Rachel's breath hitched, heat flushing through her as Quinn's lips grazed against the sensitive skin of her neck. 'Sum presentialiter.' Quinn smirked as the girl beneath her moaned, and nipped at the skin again. 'Absens in remota.' She ground her hips down, against the flushed body. 'Quisquis amat taliter.' She kissed her way up the brunette's jaw line. 'Volvitur in rota.'_

_It took Rachel a moment to realise that Quinn had pulled away, and was looking down at her with an expression that she couldn't quite place. There was triumph in there somewhere, but it was mixed with other things, a possessiveness in those darkening eyes, a vulnerability in the tilt of her head._

_'You could have made that up,' Rachel stated breathlessly._

_Quinn rolled her eyes dramatically._

_'What does it mean?' the brunette asked. In truth, the words had been like a spell. Or maybe the spell had been Quinn. Each time they touched, she felt that dark, vaguely familiar excitement expand even more. And with it, she felt the tremulous fear of where it would lead them to, a fear that was equally exciting._

_'I don't think that I want to tell you,' Quinn replied, though there was a hint of seriousness to her words._

_'You can't do that to me, and not tell me,' Rachel protested. 'Please.'_

_Quinn considered her for a moment, her eyes dipping down, before settling back on Rachel's face. She exhaled slowly._

_'Love me faithfully,' she said softly, reciting the lines that she had read so many times now, 'see how I am faithful; with all my heart, and with all my soul.'_

_Rachel let each word flow over her. The power in that soft voice reminded her of the power from an electricity pylon, it was as though she hummed with it, quiet and deadly. She had always loved that soft timbre._

_'I am with you, even when I am far away.' Quinn licked her lips, finding her mouth suddenly dry. 'Whoever loves like this… turns on the wheel.'_

_When she had finished, the atmosphere that settled between them was strange. Rachel couldn't quite put her finger on why._

_'"Turns on the wheel"?' she echoed with a frown… up until that point the poem had been intense, but the ending? Weird. Plain weird. 'What is that meant to mean?'_

_'Rota is the wheel of fortune,' Quinn shrugged, 'it's a tarot card concept. It would have made sense in medieval times… I guess…'_

_'But fortune is good, right?' Rachel asked. Again Quinn shrugged._

_'Not always,' the blonde replied lightly, leaning down to kiss Rachel's waiting lips once more. 'I think that they mean it as… fated. Destined… Doomed.'_

_Rachel frowned. But Quinn didn't see it._

_'Star-crossed lovers,' she smirked self-mockingly, moving to kiss Rachel. And beneath her touch, her uneasy lover melted once again._

* * *

><p>Quinn woke with a start, her breath coming fast and a faint sweat across her skin. It took her a moment to realise where she was, in the darkness she could have believed she was back in her old room from years ago, lying in the bed in which she and Rachel had first made love. That room was gone now, along with that house. It had been gone for many years. Faint thoughts and memories swirled together, lingering words and phantom feelings. She couldn't remember the dream, or the substance of it. But with the way her heart was fluttering still, she knew.<p>

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, steadying herself. The clock flashed the time at her. 04.23. A few more hours until the day began, a few more hours that she would never be able to fall asleep for.

'Why is it so hard?'

Her pleading question sounded whiny even to her ears. On the other side of the world, Quinn could hold it all together. On the other side of the world… Her days were busy in Cambodia, she threw herself into her work, organising the hospital, running clinics, seeing patients, coercing investors, working with limited resources and against the odds. It could be thrilling, but all too often it was heart-breaking. Every month she would spend a week in a Jeep, sharing with Nous the driving as they covered the provinces around Phnom Penh. The clinics in the towns were overwhelming, people having walked from miles around to attend, but in the evenings they were invariably hosted by the locals before driving, exhausted, to the next village. Brittany had joined her on one of those trips, her video-camera stuck in her hand, and the two of them had lain beneath the starry sky talking of all the things that don't matter in life. It was easy for Quinn to ignore her feelings when she was far away, easy to ignore the ache, the emptiness.

In a rare lull she would sit under the umbrella leaves of the banana tree and compose essays on global health and the role of NGOs in countries like Cambodia, about the structures that needed to be instigated to develop a sustainable health system. Quinn's plans for the country, Quinn's plans for the world. Idealistic but structured, thought through. Then at the close of the day she could muffle her thoughts with cold beer and enjoyable, but emotionally unattached sex. And now, in a strange way, she was missing Jessica and her uncomplicated presence.

Quinn flopped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

'You made the right decision,' she whispered to the emptiness of the room. The fact had sustained her for such a long time, with steely certainty, that the small flash of doubt she felt now troubled her. Quinn had always been so sure. She had always known. When things had been hard… when they had been near impossible, and she was broken and hurting, she had thought of that fact. It was the _right_ decision.

But tonight the doubt lingered, and it left a bitter taste in the blonde's mouth. For Rachel had achieved everything that she had ever dreamed of achieving. She was the success that Quinn had always believed she could be. A household name, an award-winner… But when Quinn had looked into those dark doe eyes in the diva's dressing room the day before, she had known in an instant… success hadn't made Rachel happy.

* * *

><p>It was four-thirty in the morning when they stumbled through the door together, all careless limbs and uncoordinated movements. Tom smelt of sweat and cigarettes, the sweet tobacco lingering around him like bad cologne. His mouth tasted of them. That, and of beer.<p>

'I want you,' Rachel hissed against his lips, biting down. But whether she wanted him, or wanted just to forget, she wasn't really in a state to know. They threw the door closed and bumped into the coffee table as they navigated their way to the bedroom. He tried to lift her up, but she struggled out of his arms.

She closed her eyes against him. With the coke in her system she could ignore the roughness of his upper lip, how it felt against her own, the rash that his stubble made against her. He pulled at her dress without finesse, the sloppiness of his kisses obliterating her mouth, his large, callous hands clumsily pushing at her. She could ignore these details, every one of them. For alcohol blurred the lines… He grunted as they crossed the border into her bedroom, tripping against the doorframe. Her dress snagged against the table, then a moment later ripped. Rachel pushed him onto the bed before straddling his lap and blinked her eyes open for a moment. The blur of him swam into focus, and for a heartbeat or who she was mesmerised, as the blonde girl looked back at her through time, with those darkening hazel eyes... A second later, she was gone… morphed once more into Tom with his bloodshot eyes and designer stubble.

'Come'ere,' he slurred, struggling to stay upright.

Rachel blanched. Desire had left her body with speed, leaving only nausea behind. Tom reached around her waist and pulled her in towards him, crushing his mouth against her neck as she turned her face away. His arms were muscled and strong around her, taut like iron.

'So fucking sexy,' he grunted again, grabbing her ass with his large hands. And Rachel felt herself sober up a bit before she tried to push him away. It was instinct more than anything that made her do it, trying to break from his grasp. He pulled her harder towards him in response, effectively trapping her.

'Stop it,' she said, pushing at him clumsily. 'Fucking _stop it_, Tom.'

The raised voice may have cut through the haze, and the minute he loosened his grip, she pushed herself away, standing up in the tangle of her torn dress.

'What the fuck is your problem, Rachel?'

She stumbled backwards. 'Get the hell away from me.'

He blinked at her owlishly for a moment, before his features twisted.

'I don't get you,' he snapped at her, making no move to stand, his clothes in equal disarray. She moved back from him, a strange nausea overtaking her. 'You're turning into a fucking psycho, Rachel.'

She stared at him for a moment, breathing hard, before tripping out of the room in her underwear without another word. She didn't want to think about it… any of it, any more. Her mood, in an instant, had reversed itself. No warnings. No explanations. And as she sank down onto the couch, she pulled the throw down over her, feeling suddenly very lost and alone.

* * *

><p>Carlos dropped his spoon into the cereal bowel of fruit loops again, watching the coloured milk splash out onto the table. No one noticed. He usually liked fruit loops. But today… today he didn't.<p>

'You're being ridiculous!' his Mami had her scary voice on, though she was keeping it quiet, along with her scary way of standing. It must be a special skill amongst parents to be infinitely more impressive when their hands are planted on their hips like that. Carlos observed her out of the corner of his eye – as that is the best way to observe angry women. He knew about Medusa from old reruns of Jason and the Argonaughts. It was one of his Momma's favourite films; though he still hadn't figured out why.

'Ridiculous?' Momma was clearly less impressed by the hands-on-hips stance than he was. Considering that they were amply distracted, he slipped down from the table and switched on the TV, grabbing the remote to flick through the channels. 'The meetings for my job are just as important as yours.'

'Carlos!' Mami's attention snapped to him for a moment, 'no cartoons. Turn it off.'

He pretended not to have heard, careful not to glance up. Their heated discussion continued over the kitchen island, and even if they tried to keep it quiet, his ears were tuned in to the slightest nuance of their voices.

'Brittany, just listen to yourself…'

'No, _you_ listen to me for once, Santana,' his Momma's voice was slightly tremulous with emotion, and he hated to hear it. He pressed up the volume on the remote. 'Just because you got a degree at College, just because you work in a large firm, just because you earn more, doesn't make your job any more important…'

'Yeah, _actually_ it does,' Mami cut in. Carlos splashed the spoon in his cereal again. 'Who pays for this house? _I do_. Who pays for the food? _I do_. Who puts Carlos through school?'

'The school that is the whole problem here?' Momma hissed back. 'Who the hell has teacher training days in the middle of the week?'

'It wouldn't be a problem if you would stop being so difficult…'

'I have meetings for the film _all day!_' Momma repeated angrily.

'Yeah? Well I have _court_, B.' His Mami paused, and he felt her attention on him again, 'I said to turn it _off_, Carlos. Don't make me ask you again.'

And usually when Mami used that tone, Carlos jumped to follow her instructions. But today? Today he was struggling with that new, growing feeling in his belly. The one that made him feel sick, and hot, and angry all at the same time. He splashed the spoon down in the milk once more, resolutely ignoring her.

His Mami was grabbing her coat and bag, gathering her things to leave, and outside he could hear the spring rain falling heavy against the window pane.

'So that's it?' His Momma asked softly, 'you're just leaving, San?'

'I'm late as it is,' Mami snapped. She shrugged on her jacket and grabbed her keys, marching towards the door. She paused beside him, kissing his forehead as she did every morning, before grabbing the remote from the table and switching off the TV. 'We don't watch TV when we are having a meal. You know the rules, Carlos. Behave today, okay kiddo?'

Carlos watched her walk swiftly out the house, that burning feeling like fire in his belly. His Momma was standing very still, watching the door through which his Mami had just left. He splashed his spoon into the cereal bowl again.

_'Carlos!_' Yeah, maybe his Momma had noticed this time. 'You're meant to eat your breakfast, not splash it all over the place…'

He splashed the spoon deliberately into the bowl again, staring stonily at the table.

_'Young man_…' his Momma's warning tone as she stepped round the kitchen island towards him. And he wasn't quite sure why he did it… sure, he often did silly things, he was temperamental and impulsive, but not towards his Momma… but the burning in his belly was too much, As she stepped towards him, he picked up the bowl and flung its contents all over her.

* * *

><p>By seven-thirty Quinn had already showered after her morning run… a morning run through the eerily quiet streets of early morning Manhattan. The hotel concierge had offered her a chilled bottle of water when she returned, a smirk on his face. By eight-thirty, she was pulling up outside the suburban house, and knocking on the front door. Long ago, Santana had given her a key and it now lay heavy in her pocket. There had been a time when she would use it almost daily, with little thought. But that time seemed distant to her now.<p>

Brittany looked upset and flustered when she flung open the door, and the mixture of expressions that crossed her face were hard for Quinn to decipher. Surprise was certainly one of them.

'Quinn! Hi... San just left,' the words tumbled out all over each other from the tall blonde's mouth. Quinn smiled.

'That's ok,' she shrugged and held up the paper bag of croissants and pain au chocolat, 'I came to see you. I brought breakfast.' She followed a distracted Brittany into the house, observing her closely. 'Is that milk…?'

'And fruit loops,' Brittany clarified darkly, 'my son decided I would look better wearing this.'

Quinn's eyebrows rose.

'Shouldn't he be in school by now?' she asked distractedly as they entered the kitchen which looked like a crime scene of milk and cereal. Her seven year old nephew was standing in the corner, the very set of his shoulders angry. He turned immediately at her voice.

'Aunt Quinn!'

_'Nose_ back in the corner, young man,' Brittany said sternly. 'You have five more minutes.'

He sulkily obeyed. Brittany surveyed the mess, and Quinn reached out to squeeze her hand. The taller blonde's expression was so lost and sad and angry that Quinn ached a little for her.

'Why don't you go and get changed,' she suggested softly, 'we'll clear this up, B... you need to calm down.'

Brittany looked at her intently, a sad expression on her face. She looked close to tears.

'You're a good friend,' Brittany's voice cracked on the word.

The instant that he heard his Momma's footsteps on the stairs, Carlos turned around and bounced towards his aunt, a grin on his face.

'Hey, _hey_,' Quinn exclaimed, looking down at him seriously, 'where do you think you're going, Mister?'

'Momma's gone,' he shrugged, as though it were obvious.

'Yeah, and you have five more minutes in the corner to think about what you've done,' Quinn pointed out seriously. The smile fell from his face. This was not the reaction that he was expecting. There was something hard in his aunt's expression that he hadn't noticed before. And at his hesitation, Quinn raised an eyebrow.

'I suggest you get your nose back in that corner before I double your time,' Quinn stated firmly. She didn't look or sound angry, but there was something in her voice that made Carlos think that he should probably obey.

_'You_ can't tell me what to do!' he objected defiantly instead.

'Carlos,' she said his name levelly, before pointing to the wall, 'I'm supporting your mother here. Corner. _Now._'

Their gazes locked for a moment and Quinn's eyes narrowed. The instant before she moved, intending to physically place him there, the boy scurried back into position. Quinn watched him intently for a few moments… Somehow in the mixed up mess of Rachel, she had momentarily forgotten the reason that she had come back. But the image of Carlos, standing there, reminded her clearly. The problem was that Quinn had no idea where to start… B and San were both not telling her things, she knew that, she recognised the signs. And what did she know about fixing relationships anyway? Her parents' marriage had been a disaster, and all she had ever managed to do was self-sabotage her own love life.

Carlos was sheepish when she finally called him out. She ruffled those dark curls and kissed his forehead.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured.

'Good,' she smiled ruefully, 'but I'm not the one you should be apologising to, tiger. We are going to clean up this mess, and then we will make your mother a nice breakfast, okay?'

He nodded easily. Apparently their clash of wills was over, for the moment at least.

'And you can apologise to her then,' Quinn stated, grabbing the floor cloth she had found to hand to him, pointing to the mess. 'Get to it.'

Well… regardless of her experience in the matter, she knew she had to figure out a way to fix them. And probably the best thing she could do would be to stop obsessing over things that could never change. Like her once-relationship with Rachel Berry.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: thanks for reading, please review if you have the time<strong>


	8. Rainy Days

**AN: thank you for the reviews for this fic - they are greatly appreciated! I'm sorry that the updates take so long - not much time at the moment to write, but I can assure you that both this one and Diva have a full story arc planned, and I intend to reach the end of both of them (it just may take a little time). And I assure you that everything will eventually be explained - so while the flashbacks may seem a bit random, they all have a point. Thanks again.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 8 - Rainy Days<span>

The heavy rain continued through the morning, and Quinn's expression mirrored Carlos' as they stared out at it from the Lopez-Pierce living room. Brittany had disappeared up to her room after breakfast, leaving the two of them together to play with the remote control car for a while, but after half an hour, both had grown bored. Carlos looked up at her despondently.

'Does it rain in Cambodia?' he asked. Luckily for Quinn his relentless questioning had slowed its pace since she had first arrived and though she was grateful that he had given her a break, she somehow felt that his reduced energy levels were an ominous sign.

'We have a rainy monsoon season between May and October,' she replied absently, watching him press his forehead against the glass, 'but it doesn't get cold, like here, it just gets really sticky.'

He nodded, taking the information on board.

'I guess we can't go out on our bikes today,' he said glumly. It tugged at her heartstrings a little, and she felt a wave of guilt about her own self-obsession over the last couple of days. She rested her hands on his small shoulders.

'No,' she agreed, forcing some excitement into her movements, 'but I have an even better plan for our day.'

He looked up at her suspiciously. 'You do?'

'I _always_ do,' she replied confidently, twirling him around, 'grab your coat and shoes. I'm just going to find your Momma and check that she doesn't mind if I steal you…'

'She won't care,' Carlos grumbled dejectedly, 'she doesn't want me around anyway...'

Quinn looked at him sharply, a frown crossing her features.

'That's a pretty serious thing to say,' she commented, studying his expression. 'Is that what you really think, tiger?'

The boy avoided her gaze, focussing intently on his socks. He gave a non-committal shrug.

'Doesn't matter,' he murmured.

'Matters to me,' she replied, guiding him to sit on the nearby couch and settling down beside him. 'You can't say something like that to me without explaining it.'

His dark eyes were uncertain as he looked up at her, and she pulled him into a hug, feeling the uncommon urge to protect him against the world and everything in it, including his silly parents. Somewhere at the back of her mind, Quinn could remember the feeling from her own childhood, of feeling unwanted, or forgotten. Something she had supressed along with any memory she associated with the Fabrays… thinking of her parents only ever caused her pain.

* * *

><p><strong>Lima 2012<strong>

_Thrills ran up and down her body as she arched into the cheerleader's touch. Rachel moaned, and against her lips the blonde girl smiled. It shouldn't have surprised her that Quinn was a quick study – the girl was smart, and she was dextrous… and her instincts regarding Rachel were spot-on, if she would just let herself go enough to follow them through._

_Rachel closed her eyes, enjoying the possessiveness of the blonde's hands, of the hammering of her heart. She squirmed in pleasure as she felt Quinn's teeth against her skin, a small nip that she was almost certain the blonde wasn't even aware she was doing. Then, without warning, the cheerleader pulled away._

_'Oh God, I'm so sorry Rach,' Quinn's face was as flushed as her own as she looked down at her with concern, 'did I hurt you?'_

_'Huh?' Rachel blinked up at her with confusion before protesting, 'don't stop.'_

_'But I… _bit_ you!' Quinn exclaimed with a look of horror crossing her features. She leant forward, tracing a gentle fingertip across the little patch of reddened skin. 'I'm so sorry.'_

_'It's ok, baby,' Rachel smiled contentedly, uncertain as to why Quinn was getting so wound up about this. She smirked at her girlfriend, stretching languidly across the bed. 'I liked it.'_

_'What?' Now it was Quinn's turn to be confused. She sat back up, tilting her head quizzically, the cascade of blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders._

_'I said I liked it, baby,' Rachel reiterated. For all that she was, and all she had become, there were moments that Quinn Fabray somehow remained as innocent as her upbringing._

_'You _liked_ it?' she echoed with shock. Sure, Rachel knew that Quinn probably hadn't meant to sound so horrified, but she couldn't help but feel a little bit judged._

_'It's perfectly normal to like to be bitten by your partner,' Rachel objected defensively, propping herself up on her elbows. 'It's animalistic, primal…'_

_'I'm _not_ an animal,' Quinn stated firmly. Rachel tried to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Sure, Quinn's instincts regarding sex with Rachel were spot on… but her conscious inhibitions were another thing entirely. She probably didn't even realise what she was doing when they were in bed together. For the last few weeks, Rachel had been excited to see Quinn's inner animal come out – in the way that she touched her, held her, grazed her teeth along her skin… Quinn Fabray was a very sexual being, and Rachel was more than aware of that, but strangely enough it seemed that Quinn herself was not aware at all._

_'Baby,' Rachel tried to sound supportive, 'we both are. It is not unusual for me to like it when you bite me. It's not unusual for me to like it when you pin me down on the bed…'_

_'I don't pin you down on the bed,' Quinn objected._

_'Oh, you so do,' Rachel responded. Only with Quinn would she be having _this_ conversation with the girl in question straddling her waist. Her girl was so utterly clueless at times. 'And it's ok, baby. It's in your personality to want to be in charge.'_

_'I don't always want to be in charge,' the blonde objected again. Rachel wasn't even going to dignify that ridiculous comment with an answer. For as long as she had known Quinn, she had known that the girl was a natural leader. Sure, Rachel herself was bossy as hell, but she was the kind of big personality that responded well to the pack leader, in fact, it was one of her girlfriend's traits that drew her to her in the first place. In animal terms, Quinn was an alpha, there was no denying that._

_'And I find it incredibly sexy,' she continued, 'I love how gentle you are with me, how considerate and careful… but when you let go and get a little bit firmer… a little bit rough, and possessive… you absolutely blow my mind, Quinn.'_

_The cheerleader did not look reassured, if anything, she looked more disturbed than she had a moment before. She folded her arms defensively across her chest._

_'You want me to be rough?' she asked, her tone filled with disbelief._

_'I'm not made of glass,' Rachel replied, 'I'm just saying that your possessive side drives me crazy, baby.'_

_Quinn considered her for a moment, a confusing mixture of emotions swirling in her hazel eyes, and Rachel wished that she could read them better. It was a battle of nature and nurture, she recognised that, but increasingly all Rachel wanted to do was tear apart her girlfriend's religious upbringing and let the primal Quinn come out. She was starting to recognise the expanse of her own desire, and it was frightening in many ways… she wanted Quinn to be the one she explored it with._

_'I don't think that I can do that,' Quinn said finally, moving swiftly off the bed and away._

_'Where are you going?' Rachel demanded, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, irritation clear in her voice._

_'Nowhere,' the blonde replied, though her actions were clearly saying the opposite as she rapidly dressed herself._

_'Quinn,' Rachel's tone was sharp, 'there is nothing wrong with wanting this.'_

_The blonde girl turned to her, and there was a flash of fear in her expression that Rachel hadn't expected. A fear that she wouldn't really understand until much later in their relationship._

_'I can't hurt you, Rachel…' the girl said, 'so please don't ask me to.'_

_And with that, her girlfriend walked out of the room, leaving an unusual atmosphere in her wake. Rachel sank back against the pillows as she heard the front door shut, utterly confused as to what had just happened. She snatched up her phone from the night stand and fired off a text within seconds._

You're being ridiculous! _- R_

_But she knew that it would be of no use. It didn't even make her feel better. She groaned in frustration. For all of her girlfriend's traits, one of her most annoying was how totally stubborn she was. Admittedly it was a trait that Rachel shared, but it was frustrating regardless, and she had the nagging feeling that it would be their downfall oneday._

* * *

><p><strong>New York, Present<strong>

Rachel pondered the rain, her thoughts drifting through faint memories and half-forgotten conversations. Her coffee table was scattered with scripts from her agent, a few read, a few more unread. None inspiring her anymore.

'Penny for your thoughts?' Kurt came back from the kitchen, carrying two mugs. An americano for Rachel, a macchiato for himself – it felt as though it had taken him 20 minutes to figure out her coffee machine. She smiled thankfully at him.

'You don't want to know,' she sighed, gratefully accepting the coffee from him and inhaling its silky aroma.

'No, Rach, when I don't want to know something, then I don't ask,' he replied. 'But I asked… so…? What has you frowning out at the rain like an Edward Hopper painting?'

She shrugged slightly, that same melancholic mood settling within her.

'Just… that we aren't teenagers anymore, you know? We aren't even in our early twenties… or late twenties. I'm nearly thirty, and I feel sometimes that the best things in my life have past me by. The important things…' She trailed off, glancing out at the rain again.

'Youth is wasted on the young,' Kurt quipped.

'You never appreciate what you have,' Rachel agreed, 'it's just the simple things, you know. I was so focussed on what I wanted, who I wanted to be, the person I wanted to be...'

'You shouldn't apologise for your ambition,' Kurt stated earnestly, 'you worked hard for your success, and it is incredible… So please don't tell me that you regret it.'

'I don't regret it,' the singer agreed, 'I don't regret it at all… it's just that sometimes, on days like today, the past closes in on me a bit and… and I guess I wish that I had done things differently, little things… Maybe it's just through looking back that you can start to understand.'

Kurt sighed. He recognised the introspective look in her eyes, and he understood the sentiment. He had also neglected his personal life in favour of success and ambition. And while your career will never abandon or cheat on you, it does a poor job of keeping you warm in the middle of the night. And of course they both knew the person that haunted Rachel's thoughts, the name that was almost taboo.

'You can't change the past, Rachel,' he said firmly, picking up one of the scripts, 'so stop thinking about it. You need to start focussing on your future, on what the hell you want to accomplish next.'

He took a sip of his latte. 'Are things getting serious with Tom?'

Rachel's eyes flicked to his, and he knew that it was the furthest thing from her mind.

'As serious as Disneyworld,' she rolled her eyes, 'I keep messing it up, Kurt. Sometimes I don't even understand what we get out of being together…'

'Great publicity,' Kurt supplied, and Rachel sent him a sharp look. They both knew why Fiona had been so insistent that Rachel take the actor up on his first offer of a date. The paparazzi went wild whenever the two of them were out together.

'Don't judge me, Kurt,' she replied.

'I'm just saying what you are thinking,' he insisted.

'Well, I don't want to hear it,' she said, settling back in her chair, cupping her mug in her hands and frowning into the dark depths. He rarely saw her like this, so caught up with her own melancholy. It was unsettling to say the least.

'You have to see her,' Kurt stated, deciding to state what the real problem clearly was, and he watched as her grip tightened on the cup. 'You need to see her, and resolve your issues with her, so that you can both move on from this.'

But as true as his words were, part of Rachel knew that she was still reluctant to move on from Quinn. Maybe the pain was addictive, or maybe she was afraid that by finally cutting Quinn out of her life she would be truly letting go of their past, their shared lives that had once held such promise and now just held despair. It had hurt too much to see her, to feel that the blonde was unaffected by her presence. For two years they had managed to pretend… and in one evening the façade had fallen apart.

* * *

><p>It was mid-afternoon when Carlos and Quinn walked into the studios to the east of central park. They had spent the rainy afternoon exploring the natural history museum on the other side of the park, and Quinn wasn't sure which of them was more exhausted. The rain had not let up, and she had driven across town to drop in to the studios that she had once spent so much time in.<p>

As they walked in, Carlos' small hand in her own, Quinn felt that strange sense of deja-vu. There had been a time that she had come here so frequently that it was like a second home. The studios hadn't changed… and somehow that was worse than if it had. The bright lights, the bustle of people...

'Ahhh… if it's not the screw up fairy,' she heard Jasper's voice before she saw him, and the grin that was stuck on his face belied his words. Still handsome, but older, more certain and refined. His eyes flickered down to Carlos who frowned back at the taller man. Of course he _knew_ Jasper. He just didn't like him. 'And little Lopez…'

'Lopez-_Pierce_,' Carlos corrected stiffly.

Jasper smirked and Quinn couldn't help her smile. He pulled her into his arms, and held her tightly in his strong embrace. Quinn couldn't help but breathe him in, revelling in how much he hadn't changed and yet the strange ways in which he had. That old stale smell of cigarettes was gone, replaced with fresh smelling aftershave; at least that one change she approved of. They had known each other for years, since that November in Boston when he had tried to chat her up in an art gallery. Carlos pushed his way between them, standing protectively in front of Quinn and folding his arms.

'Oh, he is definitely Santana's son,' Jasper stated, glancing at the little man. Maybe disliking him was genetic.

'Mami says that you are a _baboon_,' Carlos stated seriously.

'Carlos!' Quinn reprimanded.

'She's totally right,' Jasp waved down Quinn's admonishment as he gestured to the studio, 'and this is the zoo… so you should behave yourself, Lopez, or I'll feed you to one of the models.'

'Lopez-_Pierce_.' Carlos frowned at him, not totally convinced. Jasper turned his attention back to the boy's minder.

'Not that I'm not thrilled to see you, Q, but I thought we were meeting for dinner tonight?' he stated.

'Yeah, about that…'

'Don't cancel on me, Q, please…' he groaned, 'I made reservations…'

'I'm not cancelling,' she quickly reassured him, 'I'm just… Well… I need a favour…'

His eyes narrowed. He had known many incarnations of Quinn Fabray since that first autumn day, and was suspicious now of this latest version. She could be up to any number of things, she always was.

'Which is?' He pressed.

'To come and entertain Carlos for an hour or so tonight… _before_ we go out to dinner...'

'No way!' Carlos objected, certainly not happy to be paired with the older man, and Jasper at least felt that the sentiment was a mutual one.

'Quinn...' he pleaded.

'I need to talk to San and B. _Privately_,' though her words were light, the meaning conveyed by her eyes was anything but. 'And I know that you would _love_ to learn about the latest x-box games that Carlos has got his hands on.'

There were many reasons that Jasper had never had children, and one of them was that he did not feel comfortable with anyone under the age of sixteen. Genuinely. He had no interest or experience with children. But he had never been able to deny the woman in front of him anything, not when she looked at him like that. Her lips twisted into the hint of a smile, as she knew that she had him sold.

'I'm going to get Carlos some dinner and we are going to pick a few things up from my hotel room, so I'll swing by at seven to pick you up… push our reservation to nine?'

'You're lucky I love you,' he glowered.

* * *

><p><strong>Boston, 2017<strong>

_She stretched out her legs along the bed, feeling the soft silken sheets against her bare skin. It felt sensual, in the way that you can be sensual in your early twenties, in the sticky heat of summer, a sheen of sweat across your skin and the blade fan rattling on the desk. No one had expected the heatwave that summer, but it had stretched on for a number of weeks._

'_Relax,' Jasper whispered, focusing through the lens of his Nikon. A cigarette hung from his lower lip, almost an entire column of ash, a frown line creased between his brows as he concentrated. Quinn had always loved watching him work, though she would never admit it, the great pressure of perfectionism and critique. Under his gaze these days she no longer felt exposed, just alive. Finally alive again. _

'_You shouldn't smoke,' she said lightly, brushing her blonde hair from her eyes._

'_Why do you care?' he asked distractedly. The lighting was the trick. Her face always held a seriousness to which he attributed her beauty, and when her eyes flicked to him, he snapped the shutter again. Quinn was immune to the action now, the sound barely registered with her. She had been his project for months, and he had portfolios filled with her image, but her hazel eyes were penetrating as she looked at him directly. He glanced to her lips, full and soft. 'You won't let me kiss you either way.'_

_She acknowledged the statement with an almost imperceptible nod._

'_It will kill you,' she replied her eyes still on him. He clicked the shutter again, and again. Then paused, unsure, suddenly, as to whether she was referring to the cigarettes or the kiss. There was something dark, and terribly sad about Quinn Fabray, and it had him fascinated. Even in the crowds of her medical school friends, she would sometimes catch his eye, and her isolation would be palpable. She barely recognised her influence on people, on the group of people who had gravitated towards her, fascinated, as he was, by that something else that she displayed._

'_You wouldn't kill me,' he teased, dropping the cigarette carelessly into the stacked ashtray on top of the old LP player before snagging another from his jeans and lighting up. Quinn looked away without a word, out towards the window. He fiddled with the aperture of the lens, and snapped off another couple of shots. 'Look back this way, Q…'_

_She ignored him, instead, pulling herself off the bed and walking to the open window, her back still to him with its graceful curve of her spine, the soft smooth expanse of skin that he knew she would never let him touch. The light framed her perfectly, a glowing silhouette. He raised the camera to his eye again and snapped off another shot. Caught the profile of her thoughtful face. _

'_We've been friends a while now, haven't we, Jasp?'_

_He scratched at the stubble on his jaw. 'Nine months?' _

_She nodded again. The gestation period of a friendship._

'_I want to ask you a question,' she started carefully, her voice low, 'but you have to be serious about it, Jasp.'_

'_For you…' he replied. He waited an awkward moment, before placing down the camera. His eyes trailed up the back of her bare legs, the fading lines of scar tissue across her skin. _

'_It's a question of ethics. It was posed to us in class,' she didn't turn back to him, but he waited. Quinn could hold you in the moment if you let her, and he wondered if she had always been like that. _

'_A boy hates his younger cousin,' Quinn started softly, 'he thinks, often, about how much easier life would be without him around… And one day, as the younger cousin is having a bath, the boy realises his opportunity to get rid of him. He sneaks into the bathroom, pushes his cousin under the surface and holds him there until he drowns…'_

_Quinn's head tilted to the side. 'What does that make him?'_

_Jasp frowned, shrugging his broad shoulders although he knew that Q could not see him. _

'_A murderer,' he answered, not quite understanding the point. _

'_Agreed.'_

_A moment passed before she spoke again. _

'_And what if… what if, the background is the same… but the boy sneaks into the bathroom and finds that his cousin has hit his head and sunk below the surface of the water… that the boy can see that his cousin is drowning, but just stands there, not doing anything, until the cousin is dead. What does it make him?'_

'_Technically… nothing. He did nothing.'_

'_Then ethically?' She pressed, turning from the window, just to lean back against it. 'The outcome is the same, and so is the intention. Except in the second scenario he kills his cousin through inaction, rather than action. But the cousin is still dead…'_

'_But murder is an action. An action undertaken intentionally…'_

_A muscle twitched in her face, the only clue to the riptide of emotion beneath the surface. And it struck him suddenly that there was more to this than he had realised. She was upset, and in her strange, controlled, closed off way, she was reaching out to him. _

'_What do you think of it?' He asked, sucking on the cigarette. She still made him nervous. Even when she was leaning against the window in his spare room in only her underwear. _

'_This question was posed in my ethics class on Monday,' she replied evasively. _

'_And what happened?' he asked softly. That muscle in her jaw twitched again and he was careful to stand his ground. She had wanted this conversation, she had wanted the conversation because something was bothering her, he knew it. _

'_I was the only one who thought that it was the same thing,' her words were clipped. Tight. 'I was the only one who thought it was equivalent to murder. You cannot stand by and watch someone die… you can't stand by and do _nothing_, knowing the outcome, and not be responsible for it. You just can't… you can't…'_

_The tears that spilt over her eyelashes surprised him. Never, in the time that he had known her, had he ever seen her cry. And before he knew what he was doing, he had her in his arms, her smaller body so fragile against his. He had never thought of Quinn as anything but strong, and as she cried against his shirt, his mind wondered uneasily towards the scars that crisscrossed her body... those scars that made her so unique, that he had photographed a thousand times. Dark and damaged and so beautiful to him._

* * *

><p>Santana felt ambushed when she walked into the house, noting the two blondes sitting pensively at the end of the kitchen table. Pleasantries were over quickly, Quinn doing the talking, Brittany looking anywhere but her. Santana poured herself a glass of water from the fridge.<p>

Quinn levelled her gaze at her oldest friend.

'Sit down, San,' she said quietly. The lawyer shot her a look.

'I'm fine st…' Santana started.

'_Sit down_,' the blonde hissed, and for a moment Santana saw a flash of the old Quinn, of the girl that she had grown up with. That sharp edge that she had almost forgotten. She reluctantly picked up her glass of water and settled herself down into the chair opposite Brittany. For the first time in weeks they shared a look and Santana felt that she understood her wife's expression entirely, she almost smirked at the look in those blue eyes. But the moment was gone a second later, and the woman opposite her was as closed off as a stranger.

Quinn looked between them seriously, her forearms resting lightly on the table.

'I don't know what is going on with you two,' she started, her voice gentle again, 'but whatever it is… you have to _stop_. Just _stop_. You're hurting each other, so much. And it is tearing you apart… Can't you see the damage that you are doing? To each other? To your _son?_'

Santana leant back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. Part of her was tempted to give in to the urge to tell Q that it was none of her goddamn business… but she knew that saying so would just irritate her old friend, who had proved herself, many times, to be just as stubborn and fierce as Santana herself. Brittany looked away.

Quinn's eyes flicked between them exasperatedly.

'What is going on with you two?' she asked, feeling slightly desperate. 'Seriously? You love each other… _so_ much. I know you do. So what the hell has happened? Why are you doing this to each other?'

Again, a stony silence answered her question. Santana looked resolutely at the table, trying to keep control of her temper. It was hard to hear her friend voice the questions and fears that had been circling her mind over the last few weeks. What the hell was happening to them? Brittany and she had been entwined together for so many years that she felt that her wife was truly part of her, their hopes and dreams interwoven from the age of 16. She had thought that she had known Brittany Pierce almost better than she had known herself. She had thought that she couldn't live without her… and what scared her most now was that she was starting to realise that she could.

Quinn felt the frustration bubble up within her again at the lack of response. At least, in their silence they were united.

'What the hell happened, Santana?' she focused on her question on the one most likely to give her a sensible response. The expression in Santana's eyes was guarded as she looked up, meeting the hazel gaze. She pursed her lips, and made a decision.

'_Cambodia_ happened,' she said darkly. Brittany glanced at her sharply, panic evident in her blue eyes. Santana met her gaze with a hard look of her own. As well as she had thought that she had known her wife, she had never seen the side of her that had ruthlessly followed her own desires, her own ambition, her own selfish aspirations. That was how Santana viewed the plan to continue with the documentary, the beautiful documentary that practically whored out her best friend's life... the documentary she was determined to broadcast to the world.

'_Cambodia?_' Quinn looked between them, surprise and confusion evident in her voice, 'what the hell does this have to do with Cambodia?'

For a moment Santana was tempted to just tell her, get it out there in the open. Quinn certainly deserved to know, and she knew instinctively that when Q did eventually find out she was likely to blame Santana almost as much as Brittany for keeping it from her. But Brittany was practically trembling on the other side of the table. And as much as she wanted to tell her friend, she just couldn't do that to her wife.

'_Brittany?_' Quinn prompted with exasperation. She had clearly noticed the other woman's distress and was disturbed by it.

'You may as well tell her,' Santana stated coolly, but Brittany couldn't seem to say a word.

'Tell me _what?_' Quinn demanded. Brittany's eyes were focussed on her wife, wide and pleading, and Santana sank further into her seat.

'I can't do this,' Brittany's voice was weak as she stood, determined to leave the room, but Quinn was quicker, grabbing her arm as she passed.

'What the _hell_ is going on?' She whispered an undertone of fear to her voice. Brittany looked down at her friend and took a deep breath… The front door slammed suddenly, and all three of them jerked in surprise, looking towards the archway just as Rachel strode into the kitchen, freezing on the threshold as she saw them. The expression on her face was reminiscent of a rabbit caught in the headlights as she looked at Q.

Inwardly Santana cursed both her timing and ever giving Rachel a key to her house.

'What's going on?' the singer asked carefully, sensing the tension in the room.

'Maybe _you_ can tell me,' Quinn replied icily, 'as these two are about as communicative as a pair of socks…'

Rachel's dark eyes flicked from Santana to Brittany, and it was clear to Santana that the woman instantly knew what they had been discussing. Of the three of them, Rachel was the most likely to disclose the truth to Quinn if she asked for it.

The singer's eyes settled on Brittany as she weighed it up in her head.

'I think that this is something that you should hear from Brittany,' she said carefully, her words heavy with meaning. Quinn's expression darkened as she looked between the three of them.

'Are you _serious?_' the doctor demanded, losing patience, '_none_ of you are going to tell me?'

Rachel's expression hardened, meeting her ex-girlfriend's hazel gaze. She had always hated it when Quinn had used that tone with her.

'I'm going to go and see Carlos,' she stated neutrally, backing out of the room, her footsteps heard on the stairs a moment later. Quinn watched her go, shaking her head to herself in disbelief. Anger, and hurt, greater than she had allowed herself to experience for a long time, flowed through her veins. _Fine._ She stood abruptly from the table, almost knocking the chair over.

'Look, I don't even _care_,' Quinn snapped, the fury evident in her voice in stark contradiction to her words, 'whatever the hell it is… you have to stop. _Both_ of you. If not for the sake of your relationship, then for the sake of your son. Can't you see that he is hurting? Can't you see what you are doing to him?'

Santana felt the words like a slap to her face, and couldn't find the words to respond.

'Do whatever the hell you want to each other…' Quinn said disdainfully, 'but seriously, if you keep arguing in front of him… if you keep _hurting_ him, you are going to ruin the relationship that you have with him. Get your heads out of your asses and act like adults again… be the _loving parents_ that you are meant to be for him.'

* * *

><p>'Will you marry Auntie Q?'<p>

The question, when it came, distracted Jasper so much that his onscreen character ran straight into a pit and died. The photographer blinked in confusion.

'Huh?' he asked, looking down at his young companion who was focused intently on the X-box game. They had been happily playing for almost an hour and Jasper had almost relaxed into Carlos' company – big mistake, he realised now.

'I think that you should marry Auntie Q,' Carlos repeated, giving him a reproving look. Clearly the boy had formed the judgement that Jasper was mentally very slow, but he was humouring him for the moment.

'I don't think that your Auntie Q would be very pleased with that arrangement,' Jasp replied evasively.

'Why?' the boy asked, 'she likes you.'

'But she doesn't _love_ me, Carlos,' he pointed out.

'How do you know?' the boy persisted, clearly irritated that his current plan was having objections.

'Because she _doesn't_. I have seen your Aunt in love, and she is certainly _not_ in love with me,' he sighed, turning back to the screen and picking up the remote again.

'Who was she in love with?' the boy persisted.

'None of your business…'

The boy jabbed a finger at his controller and paused the game, his attention clearly grabbed.

'Who?' he demanded, rounding on the photographer. Jasper had to keep from rolling his eyes – it was his own stupid fault for answering these silly questions.

'That is none of your business…' he repeated.

'Yes it is.'

'No its… look, I'm not going to argue with you.'

'Because I'm right.'

'No, because… because I'm not going to argue with a seven year old.'

'Because I'm right.'

'Carlos…'

'You barely make sense for a grown up, Jasper,' the boy stated with a frown. To his own surprise he had found that he quite enjoyed spending time with the older man – it was a nice change from always being around women. But Carlos had made the judgement that Jasper was not the brightest crayon in the box. 'My Mami would eat you alive in court.'

'Carlos, stop picking on Jasper,' an amused voice came from the doorway and Jasper felt his heart plummet for a moment as he recognised her voice. Little Lopez had a different reaction to the new arrival and jumped up in his excitement to hug the brunette.

'Aunt Rach, Aunt Rach, Aunt Rach!' The brunette laughed at his enthusiasm and hugged him back, meeting Jasper's gaze over the boy's dark curls. Rachel Berry had never liked him much, although with their history, that should not really be surprising. Their paths had originally crossed with Quinn in between them, years ago, and although there had never really been any overt competition, it had been enough to sour the atmosphere. Rachel was never going to warm to the man that Quinn had chosen as her confidante, and Jasp was never going to warm to the singer who he felt had never tried hard enough. He straightened. Berry may be small, but he had long ago realised that she was terrifying in her own right.

'Finally found someone of your mental age to be friends with, Jasp,' she teased, kissing him on the cheek in a cool greeting. He gave a non-committal shrug.

'Nice to see you too, Rachel,' he replied lightly. Her dark eyes were guarded as she settled down onto the beanbags where they had been playing. The atmosphere between them was icy.

'I think Quinn will be leaving soon,' the actress stated in that carefully absent way she used.

'Then I guess I should go… she gave me a lift.'

'_Of course_ she did,' Rachel replied in clipped tones, but before she could say more, Carlos cut in.

'Did you bring Harry Potter?' he demanded excitedly, 'did you? _Did you?_'

'Isn't that a bit old school now?' Jasp asked sceptically, surprised by the boy's reaction. 'It was published over ten years ago…'

'We've been reading it together when I've been babysitting,' Rachel replied evenly.

'Auntie Rach does _all_ the proper voices,' Carlos said excitedly, 'we are on book three. Did you bring it?'

'I'm not really babysitting you tonight…' Rachel stated evasively. To be honest she had come over to speak to Santana, but with the drama that appeared to be unfolding downstairs it seemed that she had arrived at a bad time.

'Please… Auntie Rach, _please_…'

As if she could resist him.

'Fine,' she grumbled, dragging herself off the floor again to head downstairs again to pick up the book from her car, 'but one chapter only. And you have to get into your jammies first, okay?'

* * *

><p>It was an awkward moment when they bumped into each other in the darkened hallway. Awkward in the way that Quinn's eyes seemed to shine golden, glinting with the reflected light from the kitchen. Rachel hated the way that her heart hammered, and she turned towards the stairs, intent on just walking back up them and away, before Quinn's fingers closed around her wrist, gently holding her in place.<p>

'Look, I'm sorry,' the blonde's words were soft, those low tones that had haunted Rachel's dreams for many years. 'I'm sorry about how I behaved the other night. I'm sorry that I was rude to him…'

Rachel looked back at her, evaluating the gently curves of the woman's face. A shiver danced across her skin.

'You're sorry that you were rude to him?' she echoed sceptically, a dark eyebrow rising. And even in the dim light, she could see Quinn's lips twist. Rachel still knew her, knew her better than anyone.

'No,' she admitted, squaring her shoulders, 'he insulted you and he insulted me… so I'm not sorry for what I said to him. But I _am_ sorry that I upset you, I really didn't mean to, Rachel.'

And in those words was the girl that Rachel had always known, the girl she had loved for so long, the same girl that had left her only with anger and hatred two years ago.

'I didn't mean to make things difficult for you by coming back,' the blonde said softly, 'I know you have moved on, and I want nothing but the best for you… I always have.'

Tears stung at Rachel's eyes, and she was glad that Quinn couldn't see them.

'We can't be friends, Quinn,' she stated sadly.

'No,' the blonde sighed, 'no, we can't.'

And she carefully released the grip she had on the singer's arm, turning towards the door, her heart thudding with all the unspent emotion that was threatening to boil up within her. Sometimes… sometimes it was just too hard to live with the choices she had made.

Rachel moved before she realised what she was doing, something about the blonde turning away from her spurring her to action. She caught Quinn off guard as she stepped towards her, pushing her back against the wall of the hallway, her hands cupping the face that haunted her dreams. The air was forced from Quinn's lungs as she impacted against the wall, and the singer's lips, so soft and insistent, were already on her own. It was with surprise that she received the kiss, a kiss so familiar and unfamiliar, filled with both passion and regret. A kiss that they could only have in the dark. And it lasted but a second, before Rachel pulled away, realising with horror what she was doing.

The singer didn't say a word as she ran out into the rain, to the car that she had been heading to originally. Quinn leant breathless against the wall, her heart hammering in shock, her fingertips brushing against her lips. It took her a moment to realise that her own cheeks were wet with tears. And from between the rails of the stairs, Carlos had silently watched it all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: thank you for reading. Please review if you have the time.<strong>


	9. Honesty

AN: Sorry that it has been a while - no time/exams/work/appropriate excuse. I know that this fic feels like there may be no end to the angst... and is also a little confusing, but hopefully this chapter answers a couple of the first questions, and more will be revealed in the next few. Just to recap - R&Q dated in high school but then split up before going to college, R went to NYADA and became generally awesome, Q ended up changing her plans and went to med school - years later, Q moves to NY and the two become an item again for over a year but they end up splitting up because Q cheats. After all this Q runs away to help run a hospital in Cambodia and only comes back 2 years later because she is concerned that B&S's marriage is falling apart - make sense? Thought not.

Thank you for the reviews - it is always good to have feedback!

This is for Sadpanda - just saw what happened and I'm digusted at what people can be like, hope that you are feeling better.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 9 - Honesty<span>

**Boston 2017**

_The party was clearly in full swing when Rachel arrived at the front door, Santana at her side. She exchanged a puzzled look with the Latina, double checking the number on the apartment door. The music inside was practically making the walls vibrate._

_'I thought that Quinn told you she was having a _quiet _weekend,' Rachel said sceptically. Santana did not look impressed._

_'She said she was revising for exams… Maybe after years of med school, Q has had to redefine quiet,' the lawyer shrugged, as she hammered at the front door with a fist, hoping to be heard. 'God, Berry, I am seriously not in the mood…'_

_Rachel looked wearily at her friend, and then down at the not-too-insignificant baby bump that she sported. She had never imagined that it would be Santana who carried her and B's first child, always imagining that Brittany was the more maternal of the two, but the Latina had surprised her. She had surprised all of them. Not one to ever be kept waiting, especially not when she was pregnant, the Latina banged her fist against the door again._

_The door swung open, and a man loomed in the doorway. One of those unshaven, attractive, arty types with warm eyes and a cigarette permanently hanging from his lips. Behind him the apartment was crowded with bodies and Rachel felt a bite of apprehension. Seeing Quinn always brought on her nerves a little. Rachel had grown up in the years since leaving Lima, she had grown in many ways, but her affection for her ex had never diminished… She had never quite moved on. And seeing Quinn… seeing that reflected in the other girl's eyes. It never became any easier._

_'Lopez!' the man greeted warmly, clearly a little drunk. It was a greeting that Rachel noted Santana did not respond to, and then he looked down to the baby bump with a smile, 'and Little Lopez! Q told me you were getting big as a house, Santana – not long now, huh?'_

_'Hello Jasper…' she replied dryly._

_'And who is this fair lady?' He blocked their entry to the apartment, eyes roaming over Rachel in a teasing manner. 'Someone so attractive will not be allowed into my home without me knowing her name.'_

_Santana rolled her eyes._

_'Rachel Berry,' Rachel introduced herself with her standard stage smile, and noticed as his expression faltered. Clearly he recognised her name, and became more withdrawn, cooler even in his merry state. It made her wonder what the hell Quinn had been saying about her, how much this man knew. 'I'm an… old friend of Quinn's.'_

_'So I've heard… Jasper Wright,' he returned, offering her a hand to shake, squeezing hers hard, 'Quinn's flatmate.'_

_The tense moment was broken as someone pushed past Jasper into the hallway, and Santana took the opportunity to march passed the man into the apartment. Rachel felt an uneasiness settle within her at the look that Jasper had given her. The look that had said so much… Over the years her relationship with the blonde, or indeed, the lack thereof, had become a complicated subject. She had been so angry when Quinn had first pushed her away, furious because she hadn't allowed herself to understand, she hadn't been mature enough to understand… But as the anger faded, in that first year after their split, so her understanding had grown. By the time that Quinn had made it to Harvard, the blonde was a different person to the girl she had known so well in high school. She was charming and self-assured, but there was a darkness to her that was nothing like the girl that Rachel had loved._

_'Baby!' Unmistakable, Quinn's voice cut through the noise of the party, and Rachel felt her heart trip in her chest. She sounded somehow carefree, and innocent, and strangely more childlike than Rachel was used to. She almost expected to see Quinn in her Cheerios uniform, the old WMHS red and white, her hair still long and about her shoulders. She steeled herself to see the blonde again. Quinn had a wide smile across her face as she cut across the room to Santana, focused intently on the bump of her abdomen. 'Baby, baby, baby…'_

_'Quinn,' the Latina said dryly, as the blonde zeroed in on the bump, '…I'm up here.'_

_The blonde glanced up with a grin, 'hey, San.'_

_'Hello Baby, welcome to my flat, welcome to Boston,' she went back to talking to the pregnant bump as Santana's brows furrowed in suspicion, she grabbed the blonde's chin and lifted it to meet her gaze, the dilated, bloodshot eyes gave her the answer she was looking for._

_'Are you high?' she demanded with more surprise than outrage. Brittany giggled, bouncing up behind the smaller blonde, video camera in her hand. Brittany had come up to crash at Quinn's place as she did some filming for a potential job and Rachel had somehow agreed to take the massive detour on her way to Lima from New York to pick her up. Though the drive took forever, Rachel was still as terrified of flying as she had been when she was twelve and she drove whenever possible._

_'Don't be mad, San…' her wife pleaded with her wide blue eyes, leaning over her friend to kiss her wife happily._

_'You're high?' Rachel's voice was outraged, and the two sets of bloodshot eyes turned to her. For the first time in the many times that they had seen each other in recent years, Quinn's face lit up with pure delight. Not clouded by regret, or pain, or fear or whatever else Quinn Fabray carried around with her… for the first time, she was looking again at the girl she had loved so much. Rachel ached._

_'And Rachel…' Quinn's soft hands caressed the brunette's cheeks gently, 'beautiful, beautiful Rachel. Most beautiful girl I have ever known.'_

_Rachel felt herself come undone once more beneath that touch._

_'Jasper… have you met Rachel?' the blonde asked proudly. 'My Rachel?'_

_'Your Rachel looks like she wants to kick your ass,' the man muttered._

_'Jasper makes the most amazing cakes,' the two blondes said in unison, before dissolving into another fit of giggles._

_'We keep doing that,' Brittany grinned, curling her arms around her unimpressed wife._

_'All the time,' Quinn laughed, before grabbing Santana's hand in excitement, 'come on, San, we made you a throne!'_

'You_ got them high?' Santana demanded of Jasper as she was lead through the flat by the two blondes, not even bothering to protest. The throng of people milling around parted for them to pass, the music vibrating through the floor. 'Quinn has exams!'_

_'Quinn will sail through them - she always does,' he replied with a shrug, 'sometimes that girl just needs to let go.'_

'_Let go? _Let go?_' Santana's voice was sharp enough to cut through the noise._

_'Chill out, Mamma Lopez…'_

_'Don't Mamma Lopez me… my mamma would kick your scrawny white ass, and hers if she found out…'_

_'And yours,' Quinn added with a grin, evidently entertained by the argument, 'I love Mamma Lopez. I miss Mamma Lopez.'_

_'Me too,' Brittany agreed, swaying into her smaller blonde counterpart again. 'She's like San but older.'_

_'And fatter…' Quinn added thoughtfully._

_'And scarier…' Brittany stated. Quinn's brow furrowed._

_'Mamma Lopez isn't scary,' she objected. When they were younger, Quinn had envisioned Santana's mother as the epitome of how a mother should be – a warm, loving, affectionate woman who valued her family above all else. As a child she had been so jealous of her friend, and as a teenager she had been grateful for the relationship Santana allowed her to form with her family._

_'She is if you try to marry Santana,' Brittany replied seriously, 'but you can't do that 'cos I already did and Santana's all mine and no one else can have her. Not even you Quinn… Unless I can have you too. 'Cos that would be quite hot and I think that you'd be really wild in bed, and we are both blonde so that it quite symmetrical…'_

_Santana's dark gaze turned to Jasper again as the blondes continued their conversation beside her._

_'You got them high,' she growled._

_'Seriously Santana, let it go,' Jasper drawled, sucking on his cigarette and clearly entertained by the conversation that the girls were engaged in, 'it may not be conventional medication but it helps her.'_

_'Helps her how exactly?' Rachel cut in scathingly. 'Drugs don't help anyone.'_

_'Your throne!' Quinn announced with a grin, indicating the corner of the room piled high with cushions and decorated with fairy lights. Brittany bounced up and down on her toes as the brought the video camera up again to her eye. 'For you and my Baby Lopez-Pierce.'_

_'My baby and my Baby,' Brittany echoed. 'Baby and Baby.'_

_'It helps her sleep. Helps her forget,' Jasper replied pointedly, his eyes hard. 'Do you really think that anyone, no matter how smart, can succeed if every night they wake up from the same horrible nightmare? If when they close their eyes they see the same awful images over and over and over again?'_

* * *

><p><em>It was a few hours later that Rachel had found the portfolio, and started absently flipping through it. The party had waned slightly as the night turned into the early morning, and now Santana was confined to the throne of cushions that Quinn and Brittany had built her, and the blonde medical student was talking animatedly to Santana's pregnant bump.<em>

_The pictures in the portfolio on her lap were beautiful and well done, stunning in their composition and character. Rachel sipped at her drink – some horrendous mixture that Brittany had poured her – _"it's blue Rachel… so blue and yummy"_. She flipped through them absently until she flipped the page that made her freeze, the familiar blonde's face looking back at her, that was shock enough, but the image itself made her nauseous. It was as though she had never seen Quinn before. Confident and raw, staring back at the camera. She flipped the page again and the intake of breath was unintentional._

_'You look shocked,' Jasper's lips twisted in a sneer as he sat down next to her. Rachel said nothing, her eyes on the scars that marred the beautiful body in the photograph._

_'So you've never seen the scars on her legs,' Jasper said. 'You think that she just got up and walked out of that wheelchair looking as perfect as the girl that she was before?'_

_'She pushed me away… after…' Rachel ran a finger over the photograph. Flipped it over to the next one, another photograph, and then another._

_'You let her,' Jasper said bitterly._

_'You know nothing about it,' Rachel replied with irritation._

_'I know that she needed you and you left her in Lima,' he said. He was drunk, she knew that, but it didn't help the fact that she felt his words as though they were physical blows._

_'You know nothing about the girl that she was.'_

_'And you know nothing about the girl that she is now.'_

_Rachel glared at him, and his eyes were equally hard. There was no love lost between them, and there never would be, but as Rachel ran her finger gently across the photograph she realised with anxiety that this man had an insight that she had lost._

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York<strong>

Rachel Berry was fidgeting. Now usually Rachel was ten minutes early for her appointments, sat quietly in the corner browsing a copy of Vogue and was excessively sweet-mannered to everyone. That had all changed earlier in the week when she had barged in demanding an appointment with her therapist, and now the secretary watched her with apprehension as the singer paced the small area of the waiting room, a ball of nervous and angry energy.

Even after Laura called her into her office, the actress almost refused to remove her sunglasses. She agitatedly sat down and then immediately stood again.

'I kissed Quinn,' the words were blurted out before they had even really started. To her credit, Laura's only reaction was a brief pause in her movements as she poured Rachel her standard cup of Morrocan mint tea.

'How dare she… I mean, how _dare she!_' Rachel, who had been perched for a second or two, launched herself up again and paced over to the window, her hands planted firmly on her hips, 'Seriously, _how dare she!_'

Laura raised an eyebrow at the fury in Rachel's small body, in her movements, and her tone.

'You kissed her?' the psychologist clarified.

'Yes… no…' Rachel flung a hand in the air. 'It doesn't matter. How dare she come back. How dare she come back with her _stargazer lilies_ and her… razor sharp wit and her… fuck-me eyes. How dare she come back and _look at me like that_. And tell me that she wants the best for me… the _best for me?_ Like… like she cares. Like she really _fucking_ cares.'

Laura sat back in her chair for a moment, the atmosphere in the room was hardly conducive to a successful discussion.

'What happened after you kissed her?' Laura asked gently.

'Nothing,' Rachel spat, 'I walked out and I drove home. I was meant to read poor Carlos a story but… I couldn't. I just couldn't. I drove home and… then just lay there. I'm driving myself crazy with this Laura. She is driving me crazy.'

'So I suppose we will be talking about Quinn today,' Laura surmised, passing the cup of tea to the singer who jerkily shrugged a shoulder, 'can I clarify a few things before we start? The relationship that you describe is utterly confusing.'

'Clarify away,' Rachel said darkly, perching on the edge of the desk, 'I'm utterly confused by it myself.'

Laura gave her a sympathetic smile, steepling her fingers.

'So you were childhood sweethearts…'

'Met in Kindergarten,' Rachel replied with a shake of her head, 'but we weren't friends for very long. She doesn't even remember…'

'But you do?' Laura pressed.

'I'm six months older,' Rachel clarified, 'her father didn't approve of our friendship even then… we were only children for godsakes, but he took her away. He was a difficult man. A _very_ difficult man. We didn't see each other again until high school started.'

'And you became romantically entangled in high school?'

The diva sighed, crossing one leg over the other and took a sip of her tea, finally calming down a little bit.

'Eventually,' Rachel couldn't help the smirk that crossed her lips. That was where it started really. Glee club. That silly little Glee club. And Will Schuester. And Finn Hudson. After a lot of slushies, a teenage pregnancy, Sue Sylvester and an attempted sabotage amongst other things... 'We were together for the last two years of high school – we planned to move to New York together.'

'But that didn't happen, did it? Quinn never made it to New York.'

* * *

><p><strong>Lima 2012<strong>

_Santana's eyes were red rimmed and puffy as she folded her arms slowly across her chest. There was no hint of her usual attitude in the expression she wore and Rachel looked ready to tear into her. The hospital corridor was unusually empty, leaving the two of them alone together._

_'What the hell do you mean I can't go in!' the diva practically screamed. The Latina looked broken, and small. They both did, Rachel knew that, both looked young and fragile and fractured. Santana dropped her gaze to the floor. She didn't understand, and yet she did. She had always had an innate understanding of Quinn Fabray, even if the girl behind the hospital door no longer looked like Quinn, no longer sounded like Quinn._

_'She doesn't… she doesn't want to see you, Rachel,' the words were rough in her throat, but her eyes were dry, and gritty. It was as though she had run out of tears over the last few days._

_'She is my girlfriend, Santana, my girlfriend,' Rachel spat furiously, 'let me in.'_

_'She told you the other day… she told you…' Santana tried, but the words were drying up on her tongue._

_'I know what the hell she said,' Rachel shouted, 'but she is high on morphine – she's not making sense… She is still in shock, Santana!'_

_Santana raised her eyes to Rachel's pained ones, forcing herself to meet that stubborn gaze and wished that her parents were there, or Brittany, or even Shelby. Anyone else so that she didn't have to do this alone, she didn't have to be the one to turn Rachel away, try to make Rachel understand that… that the girl she had loved was gone._

_'She needs me, San, why are you being so difficult?'_

_'Because I love her too,' the Latina said softly, painfully, 'and what she needs right now is for you… for you to not be here.'_

_And it was all the more difficult because Santana did understand. The fury in the smaller girl was palpable and Santana stumbled backwards as Rachel pushed her violently towards the doors, kept her arms folded tightly across her chest as Rachel pushed at her again. The third time, Santana caught the diva's wrists in her hands and pulled her close, closer to each other than they ever really been._

_'She has lost everything, Santana,' Rachel's words were thick with tears, with fury and desperation. 'Everything.'_

_Santana didn't let go of the girl's wrists, she kept them tight in her hands, almost wishing that Rachel would fight against her, that the two of them could just let go and rip into each other with all the pain and fear that they were both feeling. Everything had changed. And it would never be the same as it was before, not for them, and not for Quinn._

_'Not everything,' Santana replied quietly, 'she wants to protect you, Rachel. You are so important to her. But she can't be around you. Not now.'_

_'She's pushing me away because she cares about me?' Rachel snapped sarcastically._

_'You're the only thing that she cares about anymore.'_

_Rachel ripped her hands out of Santana's grip, her expression remaining furious as she glared at the Latina._

_'Don't think that I won't be back,' the girl said harshly as she backed away, turning to storm out of the hospital._

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

Quinn looked uneasy as Santana sat down. The previous night and its issues hung over them like a storm cloud. The blonde didn't ask again the question that she had been refused the night before, and although it wasn't voiced between them, Santana recognised the hurt in her friend's eyes. Santana had never denied Quinn access to her thoughts, to her reasons. But now, with all three of them knowing what the blonde did not… It felt as though they were suddenly playing on opposite sides of a game they used to play side-by-side.

'Did you talk to Carlos?' the blonde asked. She had left abruptly with Jasper the night before, too many thoughts and feelings swirling around her head. Firstly the mysterious secret held between her friends and secondly the encounter with Rachel… she felt reality was fraying at the edges, and with it her sanity.

'We had some cuddle time last night,' Santana replied shrugging out of her jacket, 'me and him… and B. Talked to him about what's been going on.'

'He's a good kid, San…'

'I know,' Santana sighed, 'I feel so guilty for putting him through this… I didn't realise what we were doing. I just didn't _think_…'

Quinn sat back in her chair as Santana spoke, keeping her thoughts to herself. She had voiced them enough the night before and little good it had done. Little good anything she was doing had done.

'I called B this morning,' she announced, 'three times. She's ignoring me.'

Santana raised an eyebrow and Quinn met her gaze levelly, the hazel eyes hard.

'We don't lie to each other, Santana,' Quinn said, her voice quiet, 'you and me – we don't lie. We've been through too much for that. I couldn't lie to you even if I wanted to.'

'I'm not lying to you…' the Latina replied defensively.

'You're not _telling_ me either,' Quinn stated. 'Why is she afraid of telling me? Both you and Rachel already know… so how bad can it be? I'm not _that_ scary.'

On that point Santana would disagree. There were many incarnations of Quinn, and many were relatively benign, but one of them, at least, was certainly more than a little frightening.

'It's not as simple as that…'

'Why not? What the hell could Brittany have done? _Killed_ someone? _Cheated_ on you? _Stolen_ something? I don't know! None of it makes any sense, Santana. B should not be afraid to tell me anything…'

At which point, Santana threw up her hands.

'I'm not telling you, Quinn,' she stated firmly. 'I can't tell you. I have kept _your_ secret over the years and I will keep my wife's as well. B will talk when she is ready…'

'Well she can't hide from me forever,' the blonde grumbled darkly, turning to her coffee and taking a long sip of it. Santana rolled her eyes.

'Don't take this the wrong way, Q…'

'I don't know what the right way is to take it!' Quinn snapped, 'all three of you are refusing to tell me something… the very something that has fucked your relationship with your wife, and mysteriously has something to do with Cambodia, which means it has something to do with _me_… ergo, something to do with _me_ has fucked up your relationship.'

'Can you keep your voice down?' Santana asked acidly, 'I actually do want to come here again.'

'And none of you will tell me what it is!'

'Voice. _Down_.' Santana hissed through gritted teeth. Quinn shot her a glare and ground her teeth for a moment, knowing that it was best just to let it go for the time being. She really should have listened to her gut instinct when she had first decided to visit from Cambodia, because nothing was going to plan and, at the moment, the only people who seemed genuinely happy to have her back were Carlos and Jasper.

The blonde looked away moodily, irritation stiffening her movements, before sighing.

'Whatever it is that she has done, San, you need to forgive her…' Quinn's words were quiet with certainty and the Latina pursed her lips. 'There is nothing more important to you than Brittany and Carlos… nothing at all, in all the world.'

'You don't understand…' Santana started, but Quinn cut her off.

'No, I do. I _do_, San. No one is perfect, no one. Not you, not her… but you put Brittany up on a pedestal and don't give her the freedom to make mistakes. You need to support her when she is right… but also support her when she is wrong. That's marriage – for better, for worse, the good and the bad…'

Santana sighed deeply, looking at her sceptically from across the table.

'Am I seriously taking relationship advice from the woman who has self-sabotaged her relationship with the love of her life not just once, but twice?' It came out harsher than she intended it to and she saw the flash of hurt dance across Quinn's eyes before they hardened.

'Then take it from someone who knows, San. You should cherish what you have, because you are _lucky_ to have her. You will hate yourself forever if you fuck this up now.'

A heavy silence settled between them and Quinn looked down at her cooling coffee.

'I have to cancel our plans for this weekend…' she sighed after a moment. It was not what Santana had expected to hear with the sudden change of subject.

'What? _Why?_' she demanded, her eyes narrowing. 'Don't you dare be sulking, Fabray.'

Even with everything else going on, she was painfully aware that she only had the doctor with her for two weeks… two weeks that was already cut down to nine days, most of which Santana would be at work. Time was passing faster than she had anticipated, and before she knew it Quinn would be back on a plane, flying away again.

'I don't want to cancel, trust me – I _don't_,' Quinn said with resignation, 'but word is apparently out that I am back, and I have been _summoned_ to Harvard. Letitia Lennox probably wants me to perform hara-kiri in front of the alpha-omega-alpha council.'

'Oh… _shit_.' Santana understood. There are some things that you just don't do in life, like sleep with your boss… or your boss's daughter, or wife… all can end pretty disastrously. Graduating top of your class at an institution like Harvard and then requesting to transfer to New York for your residency… that was one of those things as well. You just didn't do it, and the only reason that Quinn got away with it was because Letitia Lennox was the God, or more aptly the Devil, in medical circles. But then leaving your residency program to go off to help run a hospital in a third world country like Cambodia… well, that was career suicide. 'I guess you didn't happen to tell her before you _left_ your residency programme?'

Quinn's one-time mentor was a tough bitch, vaguely reminiscent of a younger Sue Sylvester and had been more than invested in the young doctor's future. The repercussions of leaving New York had destroyed Quinn's career, and with it, the expectations placed upon her.

'That would have been far too rational. I was just so… _determined_ to get away, away from New York, away from the US,' Quinn shrugged a little helplessly. _Away from Rachel_. 'I wasn't in my right mind… she found out when I was already in Phnom Penh. And my netbook practically melted with the heat of her fury in the emails that she sent me.'

'I don't envy you,' Santana stated with a grimace, 'will you come back alive?'

Quinn allowed herself a small chuckle. Though the trip would undoubtedly be unpleasant, it was certainly something that she needed to do. And getting some distance and perspective on New York would be an added bonus.

'Lennox is the number one cardiothoracic surgeon in the country… I reckon she could dig out my heart with a toothpick in less than a minute. But there is a line in the Hippocratic oath that says "first, do no harm", so hopefully if I remind her of that then she won't murder me. Just maim me a little.'

'If you don't come back, I'll alert the police,' Santana offered with a shrug.

'Thanks.' Quinn rolled her eyes again.

* * *

><p>'Have you ever managed to be friends?' Laura asked, tapping her forefinger thoughtfully against her chin as she watched Rachel pace. The woman was calmer now than she had been before, but her agitation remained.<p>

'Yes… no… I don't know,' Rachel sighed in frustration, 'I guess not.'

'You guess not?' Laura echoed. Rachel fixed her with a level look and considered her words.

'It's hard to be friends with someone you love,' she stated honestly, her voice quiet. The silence between them grew wide and pregnant with all the words that she wasn't saying.

'Do you love her still?'

Rachel looked up at the question, wide brown eyes locking on her therapist for a moment. She had no words to answer. None that she could find.

* * *

><p><strong>Boston 2017<strong>

_Rachel couldn't help but feel slightly in awe as she navigated Harvard's Cambridge campus. She refused to show it, of course, but there was something about being there, about the prestige and history that made her fingertips tingle. She had felt the same way the first time that she had been to Julliard. And the first time that she had been to NYADA. Like those places that you only read about in books, that seemed so far away, like a fairytale from her childhood… those places exist. They existed and they were waiting for them, for the bright, young, new generation to explore them and become part of their history. Those bright young things; those young idealists._

_She pursed her lips as she looked around, certain that this was the area that Quinn had told her that they would meet, the imposing building of the library above her. It was a mixture of agitation and irritation that she felt, superficially at least. Total exasperation at the blonde. Rachel had woken early considering the time that the party from the night before had finally finished. She'd woken and tip-toed through the apartment, past Quinn's room, where Santana and Brittany were still curled up under the duvet, past Jasper's room where the photographer had disappeared with two hot blondes as the night had drawn to a close and into the lounge where Quinn had crashed on the couch. But when Rachel walked in, fully intending on waking the blonde to have the discussion that they most sorely needed to have, she had found the lounge empty. The note on the kitchen counter, written in Quinn's loopy scrawl, told her that the girl had taken herself off to the library to study… although how she could possibly concentrate after almost no sleep was beyond Rachel. Not one to be deterred, the actress had decided to hunt her down, and Quinn's replies to her texts, whilst understandably reluctant, had not been obstructive, but simply resigned._

_'Good morning, Rachel.'_

_The husky voice almost whispered in her ear as she surveyed the area and jumped in surprise._

_'Jesus! Quinn!' She spun about to glare at the smirking blonde. Considering how she should have looked after the night that she had had, Quinn looked good. Relaxed and sexy with that self-confident smile. Rachel felt her heart trip in that terribly familiar rhythm. She should not be getting sucked into these feeling again, and she certainly should not be considering her ex-girlfriend sexy. It was a path to nowhere, a path to hell… but part of her couldn't help but hope for it. The sunglasses and the messy blonde hair, the comfortable hoodie and an armful of books._

_'Come on, I'll buy you a coffee, Rach,' Quinn drawled, walking off in the direction of the café and expecting the brunette to follow._

_By the time that Quinn had come back with an Americano and a latte, Rachel had regained her equilibrium. They picked a table out of the patio, the café was practically empty at this time and Rachel noted the split second pause in Quinn's movements as she considered whether she should sit opposite her or by her side._

_'Thank you,' she said curtly, fixing the still-smirking blonde with a steady glare. 'You know why I wanted to see you alone this morning…'_

_The smirk remained, the hazel eyes hidden behind the dark glasses._

_'I'm guessing it's not just because you wanted to catch up?' Quinn said, blowing delicately at the latte in her hands._

_'Drugs? _Drugs_, Quinn? Seriously?' Rachel was careful to lower her voice, but the anger in her tone came through regardless._

_'Can we get the scolding part of this reunion out of the way quickly, please Rachel?' The blonde sighed, 'I would actually like to catch up with you properly, and I don't have much time…'_

_'Don't dismiss what I'm saying, Fabray.'_

_'I'm _not_,' Quinn replied, 'I'm just telling you that I need to study…'_

_'To study? _Really?_' The phrase Quinn used seemed to touch a nerve and Rachel felt that same anger come back, sure it had dimmed a bit in the surprise of first seeing Quinn but now… now she felt ready to rip her a new one. 'Is that what you were thinking about when you were getting high last night? Honestly Quinn!'_

_'Marijuana can barely be considered an illicit drug, Rachel,' Quinn stated blithely, in a way that made the brunette suspect that behind the dark glasses the girl was rolling her hazel eyes, 'The Canadian government itself grows hundreds of kilos of the stuff each year for medical reasons… And it's not like I am _smoking_ the stuff. My vocal cords are safe and sound…'_

_'We are not in Canada, Quinn, we are in the US. It is _illegal_,' the singer hissed, glancing about to make sure that they weren't overheard, and ignoring the smoking jib._

_'I don't need a lecture, Rach,' the blonde said coolly, finally losing the smirk from her lips._

_'Too bad,' Rachel replied fiercely, 'because you are sure as hell going to get one. For godssakes, Quinn, you are going to be a doctor. You are going to be a_ f_ doctor and you can't go around getting high if you are going to be a doctor…'_

_The blonde laughed humourlessly. 'Marijuana is the softer side of what so-called doctors get up to, Rachel. We have some of the highest rates of suicide, alcoholism and divorce… it shouldn't surprise you that there are a number of doctors who self-medicate with things _much_ more dangerous than a little hash brownie…'_

_'Stop trying to normalise it, Quinn,' Rachel threw her hands up in exasperation, fixing her dark eyes on the girl who looked so familiar and yet… so unfamiliar. 'Who _are_ you? Who is this girl that you have become?'_

_It was unexpected that Rachel's voice broke on her second question. It surprised her with all the force of loss that she suddenly felt at realising that Quinn was finally a stranger to her. Tears stung at the back of her eyes._

_'Who are you? Who are you now?' she asked softly, looking away to hide the shimmer in her eyes. But Quinn could see it, somewhere inside her was the same girl who had loved her in high school, who loved her still._

_She opened her mouth to speak, to try to explain… but the words dried up on her tongue. How do you explain the years in between? How do you explain the battle you take, when that battle has to be alone? When you feel that you have been to hell and back and barely recognise yourself in the mirror… when you have pulled yourself back together, and fought to live, to feel alive again. She didn't know how to articulate everything that had changed… why she had changed. She barely understood it herself._

_And with anyone else it wouldn't matter. With anyone else she could laugh and shrug, look disdainfully back and simply say that she had moved on. That times change. That people change. Grow up. But people don't change… not really. The situation changes, but the core… the soul of who you are. That person stays the same. And long ago she had given Rachel Berry part of her soul… sometimes she felt that maybe, she was the only one who could ever, truly, bring the real Quinn back._

_'You don't understand…' She said softly, finally finding her words as she slipped off her glasses, needing to see Rachel raw again._

_'Don't I? _Don't I?**'**

_'It didn't happen to you.' Quinn's words were quiet. They had never spoken of it, never, in the years since the end of high school. Each time they had seen each other it had been as though they were treading around broken glass, afraid to be alone together with the sharp fragments of their history. But this time something snapped in Rachel, something that had been taut and waiting to snap for a long time now._

_'Yes,' she replied, the tears hot on her cheeks as she furiously tried to brush them away, _'_ it did. It happened to me, it hurt _me_ as well, it destroyed me. Because the person that I loved more than anything in the world… the girl that I cared so much about… that girl _thinks_ that she died that night. _That_ girl has been pushing me away ever since… I lost _you_, Quinn. I lost you and I have been grieving for you for six years.'_

_Before she even knew what she was doing, Quinn was reaching across the table, brushing the back of the other girl's hand even as Rachel jerked it away._

_'I never wanted to hurt you…' She whispered earnestly._

_'You _always _say that, but it still hurts, Quinn. It hurts because I _know _that you love me, I know that you love me still. And I thought that I could give you space, I thought that time and space would help you heal, but they haven't. You are as broken as you were in the hospital.'_

_The words were sharp, and sliced her open._

_'There are some things that can never heal, Rachel…' the blonde's voice was low as she spoke._

_'And there are some things that can… you need to start facing this. You need to start facing it head on, because you are wasting your time, you are wasting your life... Fuck it, Quinn, you're wasting _my _life waiting for you to sort your shit out…' She had never said it out loud. Never allowed herself to even think it, but the moment she said it she knew that it was true. Since that day that Santana had sent her away, Rachel had always known that she would eventually be coming back. That she had never intended to give Quinn up. This time when the blonde took her hands, Rachel didn't jerk away._

_'Don't cry, please don't cry,' Quinn whispered, her fingers of their own volition reaching out to caress the tearstained cheeks. 'I just…' she started, swallowing thickly, 'I don't know where to start.'_

_'Well… not with hash cakes,' Rachel stated softly, leaning into the girl's touch. Quinn allowed herself a soft smile._

_'They're cheaper than psychotherapy,' she said, the smile widening as Rachel shot her another glare._

_'Don't you dare be flippant about this…'_

_'I wasn't,' Quinn replied lightly, 'psychotherapy is seriously expensive…'_

_'Quinn,' Rachel spoke gently, studying the girl's face as she spoke, 'don't you think that it is something that you could spend some of your inheritance on?'_

_She watched as the blonde's expression froze, a muscle twitching at her jaw._

_'I don't want to touch his money,' the words were cool, detached._

_'Quinn…'_

'No_, Rachel,' the blonde looked at her earnestly, 'I don't want anything to do with it. I never did.'_

_This time it was Rachel who reached across the distance between them, Rachel who took the blonde's hands, held them tightly in her own._

_'You didn't kill him,' she said firmly, 'you _didn't _kill him. Just as you didn't kill your mother, or Franny. You didn't kill them Quinn. None of them.'_

_That muscle twitched again in her jaw, the dangerous currents of her emotions intensifying._

_'I left him there to _die_… it is the same fucking thing,' Quinn replied._

_'You saved yourself, you _chose_ to live…' Rachel objected softly._

_'I left my father there to _die_. I left him on the floor… I couldn't carry him, Rachel… he was too heavy, just too… too  
>fucking heavy…' There were no tears, as all the tears had been shed years before. But Quinn's jilted words, her throat closing up around them and burning with the pain of years of guilt. As she choked on her words, Rachel realised that<br>she didn't give a shit where they were, in Harvard, in a café, wherever. She pulled the stubborn blonde into her arms, and held her tightly. Held her body against her own, and whispered over and over into her hair._

_'You have nothing to feel guilty for, baby. You have nothing to feel guilty for...'_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: thats all for now. Thanks for reading - please review if you want.<strong>


	10. Ashes to ashes

**A/N: sorry for taking such a long time with this update. It mainly deals with the revelation in the last chapter - and we kinda need to get through that before we can move on with the rest of the story - so apologies that it is mostly set in the past and somewhat depressing, the next chapter will be mostly back in the present again.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 10 – Ashes to ashes<span>

**Lima 2012**

_It was only the first act and Rachel was enthralled. Like totally and utterly entirely entranced by the scenes unfolding on the stage. Dramatic theatre had never been her thing – give her a show tune or a musical any day, but a play? Most certainly not. And _Shakespeare? _Up until twenty minutes ago she would have laughed in your face if you had even hinted at it being worth watching… but now? Now she felt as though she had been slapped in the face with her own ignorance. The words were coming alive on the stage as though they were magic._

'_Peace,' Aidan, tall and broad, delivered Macbeth's uncertain lines with intensity that had her hooked, but it was Quinn's Lady Macbeth that had undoubtedly stolen the show from the delivery of her very first line, 'I dare do all that may become a man, who dares do more is none…'_

_Quinn's gaze was hard, the disdainful sneer across her lips as she delivered her blistering reply. And Rachel tingled from the tips of her toes all the way up her body as she watched, a small surge of jealousy as Quinn placed her hand across his chest, both sensual and contemptuous._

'…_and, to be _more_ than you were, you would be so much _more_ than a man…' _

_Rachel was certain that she was not meant to be so aroused by Lady Macbeth. But whenever Quinn stepped onto the stage, it seemed to light up with her presence. It may be an amateur theatre production, but the audience was hooked._

'_If we should fail?' the uncertain Macbeth looked to the blonde with anxiety, and Quinn's voice carried out across the stalls of seats._

'_We fail,' Lady Macbeth stated fiercely before dropping her voice to an intense hiss. 'But screw your courage to the sticking place, and we'll _not_ fail.'_

* * *

><p><em>Rachel first saw them during the intermission, a flash of blond hair from the corner of her eye that she thought for a moment was Quinn. Instinctively she turned from the conversation she was having, but froze as she recognised the icy blonde. Though Frances Fabray looked so similar to Quinn, they could not be more different in temperament, and on the few occasions that Rachel had met her she couldn't help but feel intimidated. It was the way that they held themselves that gave them such resemblance, the set of their shoulders, the smooth sway of their gait. Quinn looked more like her mother whereas Franny's features were more reminiscent of Russell. <em>

'_The Fabrays are here,' Rachel noted neutrally, and Santana swung to follow her line of vision, her eyes narrowing. _

'_Fuck it,' the Latina grumbled, 'why is it that every time something good happens for Q, _they_ turn up to ruin if for her?' _

'_Maybe they came to be supportive?' Brittany suggested, and Rachel shared a look of disbelief with Santana. Brittany's naivety was adorable sometimes, and Rachel often wished that she could have such faith in the world, but the complex relationship that Q had with her family was not so straightforward. An uneasiness stirred within her, watching Judy Fabray, the beautiful socialite, glide through the crowd. After a moment's hesitation, she tuned back into the conversation that the two cheerleaders were having trying to put the Fabrays to the back of her mind._

'…_the language is really funny, but I think I kinda get it now,' Brittany continued. 'Quinn is really awesome at being an evil bitch.'_

'_That's because it comes naturally,' Santana quipped, flinching away as Rachel smacked her on the arm. _'Kidding_. Jesus Berry!'_

* * *

><p><em>At the end of the third act, the applause, when it came, was deafening. Rachel launched to her feet, unable to keep the proud smile from her features. The auditorium was packed. As full as she had ever seen it for an opening night. Her heart seemed to swell with pride as the cast stepped out to take their bows. Aidan smiling shyly across at Quinn who took his hand. And afterwards, as the crowds dispersed, Rachel waited in the aisle for her girlfriend, buzzing with excitement. She spotted the blonde from a distance, talking with a tall brunette, and she rushed forward, only to falter in her step as she recognised her. <em>

_Shelby was close to the blonde, talking intensely and Rachel was surprised by the acidic burn of jealousy that shot through her. Whether it was from the expression on Shelby's face, or of Quinn's she couldn't decide. Her biological mother leant forward, embracing Quinn in a hug that sent a sharp lance through Rachel, and suddenly she couldn't catch her breath for the force of it. Even moments later, when Quinn was beside her, she couldn't quite focus on anything but the haze of betrayal that she felt that she was suffocating in. Betrayal, rejection. She focussed her wide, accusing eyes on her girlfriend. _

'_What was Shelby doing here?' she asked sourly, and the soft smile fell instantly from Quinn's face. _

'_I invited her,' she replied evenly. But she had honestly not expected the older woman to turn up._

'Why?_' Rachel demanded, a faint tremble of insecurity rushing across her skin, 'why invite _her?_ Of all people, Quinn, why _her?_' _

_And with the hurt that was clear from her tone, the blonde realised the magnitude of her mistake. She reached out gently to take her girlfriend's hands, only to have them snatched away. Quinn didn't want to be honest, not now. She didn't want to admit to Rachel that Shelby had asked for the ticket, has asked to see her perform. She didn't want to have to explain that she had become closer to the older woman, through Beth, through the evening or two per week that she babysat the little girl. Shelby was so much like Rachel that there was no way that she could not warm to the woman. These were things that had happened without her meaning for them to, things that had just… occurred._

'_I'm sorry,' she whispered, trying to get her girlfriend to look at her, watching as the face she loved so much crumpled, 'I'm sorry, Rachel. I didn't think… I'm an idiot and… and I just didn't think.'_

'_Why _her?_' Rachel echoed herself, and again Quinn reached out, only to be rejected once more. The buzz of the night, of the success, which had flooded her veins had gone._

'_I told you, I didn't think,' Quinn replied with slightly more force to her tone than she intended, 'and I'm sorry.'_

'_You know how I feel about her…' _

'_I said that I'm sorry, baby.' Quinn sighed at her own idiocy, feeling suddenly so tired. The night had drained her – the performance, the buzz of it, and now? _

'_I don't care if you are sorry, Quinn, you shouldn't have done it…'_

'_It was just a _ticket_ for a _play_,' Quinn objected. But they both knew that it was more than that. It was a conversation with Shelby. An interest. An embrace. Things that Rachel had once craved from the woman who had rejected her, things that Quinn should certainly not be entitled to. _

'_Let's just go home, babe,' Quinn said, deflated from the argument, but again, Rachel pulled away from her, her expression fierce. _

'_I don't want to go home. Not with you. Not tonight.'_

_The words, as silly as they sounded, stung, and Quinn turned on her with incredulity. _

'_For _godsakes_, Rachel,' she snapped, 'it was just a stupid ticket and I said I was sorry. Don't be so childish.' _

_The girl bristled against the words, tears stinging in her eyes. She folded her arms across her chest. _

'_I don't want to be with you tonight,' she repeated firmly, glaring at her girlfriend, though part of her knew that what she really wanted was for Quinn to take her in her arms and just hold her, hold her until that empty space of insecurity that Shelby had torn could close and heal just a little. 'I don't want to see you and I don't want to be with you. Not tonight… I want to be alone… Just leave me alone.'_

_Hurt flashed in Quinn's eyes, and for a moment they stared at each other, before Quinn folded her own arms across her chest. _

'_Fine,' she said icily, 'go and sulk. I'll see you tomorrow.'_

_And she turned on her heal, her shoulders set in anger as she stalked out of the auditorium. Rachel watched her go, part of her yearning to call out and stop her. Realising only after Quinn had left the building that she had never congratulated her on her performance, never said a word. But the insecurity that gnawed within her, that made her feel so worthless, had overpowered everything. She stood there, trembling, for a long while after Quinn had left, wishing that she had done something differently. It would be something that she regretted for the rest of her life. _

* * *

><p><em>Quinn drove fast on the way home, the anger in her body diffusing through into the car and onto the road. She hit her foot down on the break as she came to a stop light, the car jerking to a halt and smacked her hands hard against the steering wheel in frustration. She was furious. Not so much at Rachel, but at herself.<em>

_At what point did excluding information from your girlfriend become deceitful? At what point was it dishonesty? She had known that her developing acquaintance with Shelby would hurt Rachel… she had known it, and still, selfishly pursued it. For Beth… for Beth she would do anything. But was it selfish to want to have an amicable relationship with her daughter's adoptive mother? _

_As the lights changed, she pushed her foot down on the accelerator, shooting forward across the intersection. _

_Even if that woman is your girlfriend's biological mother? _

_She relaxed back into the seat, gliding smoothly round the corner towards her house. She had been so sure that Rachel knew that Quinn saw Shelby each week… she knew that Quinn visited Beth. But it just wasn't something that they spoke about. Or was that just because Quinn didn't talk about it. She was not going to give up seeing Beth. But she thought that she had been protecting Rachel from being hurt by not explicitly telling her each time. _

_Quinn had barely been focused on her surroundings as she pulled up outside her house, but in the moment that she glanced up at it, she felt her blood run cold. _

_Strangely it was the haze that first caught her attention, the haze of smoke, billowing up, rather than the flames that were hungrily leaping from the upstairs windows. Her mouth was dry as she dialled the number on her phone, her voice robotic as she answered their questions. _Fire service. Zip code. Address._ And if she had stopped to think then she would have never done what she did next. It was stupid. Suicidal. She should never have let herself move from the safety of her car. But the moment she spotted her sister's car in the driveway she was halfway across the front lawn._

_She was fit from the hours on the football pitch, toned and coiled from Sylvester's sadistic conditioning routines. Quinn crossed the threshold of the front door, holding her letterman across her face, as she shut it behind her._

'_Franny!' she screamed into the house, the smoke stinging at her eyes. She ran through to the kitchen, throwing the teatowels in the sink and putting the taps on full, soaking them before running with them up towards the stairs._

'_Franny!' _

_Nothing but the spitting and creaking of the wood answered her screams. The wall of heat from the flames hit her hard halfway up the second flight of stairs and she paused. Sobriety settling in. _

'_Franny! _Franny!_' _

_And maybe it was cowardice that made her turn around, maybe it was her rational brain catching up with her instincts and telling her to get out, that there was nothing that she could do but watch the building burn… but as she turned, away from the flames that seemed to be spreading fiercely before her eyes, she heard the voice call out._

'_Quinn?' _

_His voice was broken… choked, coming from above. And it stopped her in her tracks, her heart hammering with adrenaline, with fear. She must have paused just for a split second, and against all her instincts to run, she turned back to the fire. _

'_Quinn?' _

_And there it was, stronger and desperate, and Quinn could not turn away. She closed her eyes and ran. Shielding her eyes against the heat, staying as far away from the flames as she could. His body was dark against the floor, his long, broad body broken as he tried to drag himself along with his arms. _

'_Dad,' she gasped the name she almost never used for him as she crouched down at his side, looping an arm under his arms, trying to help raise him up. His body, against hers, was a dead weight, and he barely shifted. _

'_My knees, Quinn,' his breathing hitched with pain, 'I can't… I can't stand...'_

_And in all their complicated history together, she had never heard him so shattered. Always strong and firm and authoritarian. Everything that she had hated so much about him. She bit her lip between her teeth as she shifted their positions, biting so hard as she tried to lift him that she drew blood. A little more, and he was propped against her, their bodies slick with sweat from the heat. She turned her head to the landing. If only she could get him to the stairs then she could just roll him down them, push him all the way, but even as she watched, she knew with horrible certainty that it was too late. The wall of flame had spread fiercely across the floor, the dark smoke choking her. _

_She stumbled backwards, back through the door of the guestroom, catching them both as they fell, just enough to push them into the room to land on the floor. She cried out as he landed on her arm, tears stinging at her dry eyes. _

'_We… can't get out that way,' she gasped, strands of sweat-slick hair falling across her face as she scrambled up, kicking the door shut against the flames. She looked into the dim room, a room she had known all her life. One window. The double bed. No way out. _No way out.

'_Quinn…' the word was tired, it was tired and defeatist. _

'_We are going to get out of here,' she snapped back fiercely, his blue eyes looking up at her from the dirt smeared face. _

'_There's no way out, Quinn,' he replied. _

'_We are getting _out!'

_Her breathing was laboured. The tendrils of smoke were already rising from under the door, seeping from the edges. Think. Think. _Think.

_She crawled to the bed, holding her injured arm at her side and pulled the mattress from it with all her strength. Quinn scrambled to her feet, jerking open the window as wide as it would go. It went against everything she had ever been taught about fires. About how the oxygen feeds the flames, about trying to suffocated the fire, but she couldn't even hear the sirens on the horizon, and she knew that they were dead anyway. _

_The night was cool and clear. Quiet actually, the moon high. And far down below, the grass of her back garden. The garden that she had played in as a child, where she had learnt to ride her bike, where she sunbathed in summer and had learnt to backflip from her sister. It seemed so far down. Too far._

_It took all of her effort to push the mattress through the window, to let it fall to the ground below. The sound of it landing on the grass made her feel nauseated, the fear making her tremble. By the time that she had grabbed the bedding and thrown it out, the flames had started to dance across the walls, climbing up to the ceiling. There was a loud crash as a beam buckled on the landing and the tremor that shot through the floor made her stumble. She saw the picture frame just before it fell from the wall onto her father, and stretched out her arm to block its path. The searing heat of it across the back of her hand made her scream. It shattered on the floor beside him. The family portrait melting and curling in on itself._

'_Come _on_,' she urged, gripping him by the shoulder and dragging him across the floor towards the window. 'Come _on!'

'_I can't do this Quinn,' his voice was resigned and she glared at him fiercely._

'_You _can!_' she snapped, desperation fraying her at the edges, 'you're my father. You can do anything you put your mind to…'_

'_My knees, Quinn. I can't stand…'_

'_Then I will _help_ you,' she urged, trying to help lift him again, but her strength was gone, her arm hanging useless at her side._

'_I can't do this.' He repeated. And the flames were closing in, encircling the room and reaching hungrily for the fresh air._

'_Get out of here Quinn.' He told her firmly. 'Get out of here _now_.'_

_She gritted her teeth stubbornly. It had always been a clash of wills between them, ever since she had been a child they had never managed to agree. _

'_I am not leaving without you,' she replied, coughing on the smoke. 'So either we both jump, or neither of us do.'_

_He closed his eyes against her glare, a frown deepening his features as he pulled himself up against the window. His face a mask of pain as he tried to stand. _

'_I'm right behind you, sweetheart.'_

_And there was barely time to think about it as she climbed out onto the window ledge, finally hearing the faint sirens in the distance. The mattress was a tiny target below, and, delirious on fear, Quinn raised her arms in an imaginary salute as she had when she was competing in her gymnastics competitions as a child. _Candidate number 43. One and three-quarter back somersault. _She held her breath as she jumped, a silent prayer to breathe again, and closed her eyes against it all. The air rushed up around her, so loud in her ears. The ground came up fast to meet her and she landed feet first, bending her knees in the instinctive way that came from so many years of Sylvester's cheerio coaching, despite the sharp and searing pain of her tibias snapping, the sharp ends stabbing through the skin. Quinn screamed. She screamed. And screamed until she passed out. _

* * *

><p><strong>Present day. New York<strong>

Santana woke with a start, an unusual feeling of semi-alertness washing through her. It was dark, the kind of deep darkness of the middle of the night, and the space next to her in the bed was cold and empty. She took a deep breath, trying to recall the last few moments before waking, that lucid moment of dreaming and wakefulness, but nothing came. Just this unnamed anxiety.

She slipped from the sheets, padding across to the window and glancing out through the curtains to the clear dark night. The moon hung high in the sky and a few stars could be seen amid the glow of the city. She left her room, checking in on Carlos who lay sprawled across his bed, arms above his head, and it was just as she was passing the den to go downstairs and grab a glass of water that she heard the muffled sob.

Santana froze. Certain that she was imagining it, but then it came again and part of her ached at the sound, ached that Brittany was down here alone. She quietly opened the door, slipping in to the room. Long shadows were cast by the lamp on the desk, and her blonde wife was curled in her editing chair, a low quality recording playing on the monitor. It may have been old, but Santana recognised it immediately, a lump forming in her throat as she stepped forward instinctively, her eyes fixed on the monitor even as Brittany jumped in surprise at realising she was there.

'Oh, B…' she whispered, tears stinging at her own eyes, and a rush of nostalgia washing through her. The blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy as they looked up at her. 'I didn't know that you kept this… I forgot that you even recorded it.'

The blonde sniffed, glancing back to the monitor again, pausing the playback with a flick of a finger.

'So did I at first,' she choked, 'I found it when I went home after my first term at college. I couldn't watch it then, but I couldn't throw it out… It was so fucked up, Santana. Everything was so fucked…'

On hearing her wife swear so brokenly, Santana couldn't help but reach out for her, awkwardly pulling the taller woman up and into her arms in the dark of the night. And Brittany clung to her, burying her face in the crook of her neck. It _had_ been fucked up back then, but the two of them had made it good, they had built something, Santana and Brittany, together had built something out of the ruins. They had survived, they had made a family, and a home…

'I could never watch Macbeth after that night,' Santana whispered. Quinn had absolutely destroyed that role on opening night only hours before she had jumped from the second storey window of her burning home. Hours before Russell and Franny Fabray had died in the blaze. Hours before all their lives had changed irrevocably.

'I thought of it tonight,' Brittany said softly against her skin, 'the sky was so clear, and still. I can't breathe sometimes when it is still like that. It frightens me to remember.'

'It all blurs together, doesn't it?' Santana murmured, 'the order of events. The phone-call coming through, Rachel's Dad… that's the only clear thing about that first week for me.'

'And the doctor telling us that Judy had passed away, that she never regained consciousness.'

Santana tightened her grip around her wife, realising suddenly that she was trembling. And Quinn's words from the day before flooded her thoughts.

'I never want to lose you,' she whispered earnestly, and Brittany looked up at her, wide eyed. It had been such a long time since either of them had spoken affectionately to each other, such a long time since bitterness and anger had not dominated their interactions…

'I'm going to tell her,' Brittany whispered the promise, and for once Santana just nodded. 'As soon as she is back from Harvard I will tell her.'

Santana nuzzled the blonde hair, holding her close and tightly to her, breathing her in. She just hoped that the revelation would not tear apart the fragile seams that held Quinn together.

* * *

><p><strong>2012. Lima. After the fire<strong>

_'Don't be angry with me. I couldn't... stand it anymore.'_

_Quinn was staring at the wall. And in her heart of hearts, Shelby had to admit it was scaring her, terrifying her. She carefully prised the scissors from the girl's fingers, ready to shred whichever stupid teenager had left scissors within Quinn's reach. Around the pillow, Quinn's blonde hair had fallen in blonde clumps, hacked off unevenly from her head. The long blonde hair that had once defined the cheerleader was gone. _

_'Please... just leave me alone.' _

'_No,' Shelby stated firmly, 'I am not going to watch as you throw your life away Quinn. I am not going help you do that.'_

'_Please just leave me the hell alone…' the girl repeated quietly, careful not to wake the little girl who was sleeping peacefully on the couch. Her eyes dropped to Beth, and then rose again to the wall. Blank. _

'_I am not going to do that. So you lost everything. You have lost your family. You have lost your home. You've lost your independence. You have pushed away your girlfriend,' her voice squeaked a little on the word, on the acknowledgement of Rachel. 'You are trying to push away everyone… I am not going to let you throw away your life.'_

'_Just leave me alone…' the girl whispered hollowly. _

'_Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start _fighting_ again, Quinn!' the older woman urged. She felt like she was hammering on the doors of the blonde's barriers, and the harder she hit at it, the less likely it was that the barriers would crumble. Her heart broke to watch her. It really did. For the girl who had held such promise, such drive and passion and somehow, such innocence, was gone. That girl was gone, and Shelby knew, with a stony heaviness in her heart, that she would never come back. She was lost forever in the flames of that fire. _

'_There is nothing to fight for,' the blonde said quietly, looking down at her knees, at the casts on her legs, the internal fixators hidden beneath. _Maybe you will walk again, _her doctors had said,_ maybe you won't_. But what did it matter anyway? Did anything matter anymore? _

'_There is everything to fight for,' Shelby hissed, feeling like a broken record. But she knew that it was no use, she was not getting through. She glanced at her baby girl, lying asleep on the couch. Her blonde baby, little Beth, who she knew, just _knew_ would end up reminding her so much of the lost girl in front of her. 'Fine, Quinn, wallow in your self-pity.'_

_She made the decision, and strode from the room, scissors in hand, shutting the door firmly behind her. On the other side of it, Carlos Lopez and his daughter waited anxiously, Santana's eyes wide. Life's harsh realities had struck home with these kids harder than Shelby would ever wish on anyone, and each of them, Quinn, Santana, Puck… Rachel. Each of them had lost a little bit of the innocence that they had had before. But none more than Quinn._

'_Shelby!' Quinn's voice, broken but strong cried out, trying not to wake the baby, but desperate to get her to come back, 'Shelby, please…'_

_Santana twitched, her face a grimace as she responded to the pain in Quinn's voice. _

'_Don't leave her with me…' Quinn's voice cracked, the fear so raw that Santana reached for the door before Shelby's hand stopped her, her own eyes filled with tears. 'Don't leave her with me… it's not safe. It's not safe for her…'_

'_She's _hurting_,' Santana objected, hearing her best friend's pain cutting through her like a razor. Carlos rested a hand on her shoulder. 'Can't you hear that she's _hurting_?'_

_And Shelby closed her eyes against the voice that cried desperately from within that room, her own eyes wet with tears, but resolute in her decision. And as she listened to Quinn's voice, she knew with certainty that the only person who would ever be able to bring Quinn back from the brink was already in that room. She just hoped that Beth would be enough._

* * *

><p><strong>2012. Lima. After the fire<strong>

_It was sunny on the day of the memorial, and Santana felt uncommonly angry at the world for not blotting out the sun. It had no right to be sunny on a day like this. The dark fury and bitterness that had enveloped Quinn like a cloud since the fire had finally receded, and been replaced by something much worse; emptiness. Santana had watched her best friend from the door way as she applied her make up meticulously. Years of practice made the movements instinctive, and as she clipped her ragged blonde hair back and smoothed the errant strands until they held in place._

'_Ready?' Santana asked her softly. _

_She didn't recognise the girl behind the hazel eyes that met hers in the mirror. _

'_To bury my family?' _

_The words were hollow, empty of inflection, but Santana didn't even flinch. _

'_To lay them to rest,' she replied. _

_Quinn's eyes slipped away from hers, focussing somewhere in the middle distance, somewhere no one else could reach her. _

'_I love you, you know, San,' she said softly._

_When Santana saw the large crowd that had gathered about the church, black suits, black dresses, she felt the uncommon urge to tell the driver to turn around and drive away, take Quinn with her and protect her from them all. She should have expected it really, the flocks of people. Judy Fabray had been a socialite, Russell a businessman, and Franny as popular as her younger sister. There were even a couple of photographers at the edges, the glass of the lens glinting in the sunlight. Amongst the crowd she spotted faces she recognised, college kids who had been at McKinley years ago, teachers, parents. But even more of the faces were strangers. And before she knew it, the car had stopped and Puck, in a dark suit was opening the back door, bending down to scoop up Quinn into his strong arms and lifting her carefully into the wheelchair that was waiting. The crowd's attention had been attracted by the arrival of their car, and they watched in muted anticipation as the lone Fabray emerged._

_Santana sat, frozen for a moment. Somehow, _this_ made it real. Stepping out there, following Quinn out onto the stage of grief would make it real, no longer a nightmare from which they could all awake. She wondered briefly if Quinn cursed her legs for her inability to run away. Brittany opened her door and with reluctance, Santana stepped out. _

_The blonde dancer leant forward to kiss her briefly on the cheek, recognising the tension in her girlfriend's body. _

'_There are so many people,' Brittany said quietly to her, a similar anxiety in her voice, 'not just here but round the back as well. And they are _still_ arriving. I don't think that they will all fit in the church.'_

'_And Rachel?' Santana asked, concerned about the one person who had the ability to tear through Quinn's flinty façade._

'_In New York,' Brittany replied with certainty, 'I double checked with her Dad. they took her out there early.'_

_Well that, at least, was a blessing. They fell into step beside the wheelchair, as Puck pushed it gently along towards the arch of the church doorway. And as they got there, Santana glanced back, in time to see the three black Mercedes arrive in convoy. Uneasiness churned within her and she paused to watch the occupants exit the cars, yet another set of black suited men who she didn't recognise. But there was something different about the way that they held themselves, the set of their shoulders, or maybe the tilt of their heads. Wealth hung around them in their very mannger, but it was something odd that made her hackles rise. Something menacing. _

* * *

><p>'<em>So when are you off to College?' Shelby asked, jolting Santana out of her thoughts as she looked amongst the people. She felt exhausted by the day, by the last few weeks, by everything. It had been surreal. Watching over Quinn in hospital, then taking her home and integrating her into the Lopez household. Sitting with the blonde as she browsed the internet for coffins. She had never known that there were so many different types – the wood, the handles, the finish, the lining. Listening to Elgar and Tchaikovsky and Handel as Q sat in serious deliberation about the music for the service, for the wake. She had taken on the task with gravity, and planned each meticulous detail. Santana realised with some chagrin that she should not have expected anything else from the blonde. <em>

'_Ten days,' Santana replied, surprised by how the time had crept up on her. 'In ten days time.'_

'_Studying Law, right?'_

'_How did you know that?' Santana finally met the older woman's eyes. She had never really had much to do with Shelby Corcoran, only really knowing her from afar initially as the cold bitch that lead Vocal Adrenaline, and then as the woman who had rejected Rachel… the woman who had adopted Beth. But since the fire, Shelby had launched herself fully into Quinn's life, in strange symmetry to the abruptness of Rachel leaving it. There was something charming about the awkward but fiercely maternal approach that Shelby had taken towards Quinn, and strangely, in her broken state, it seemed as though the blonde had barely noticed it. For if she had, Santana knew that Quinn would reject the brunette so fast that Shelby's head would spin._

'_Quinn told me when you were all applying for College,' the woman elaborated, something in her expression uncannily like Rachel. 'It will be good for you to get away… put all this business behind you.'_

_It seemed such a callous thing to say that Santana stared for a moment at the woman to check that she had heard her correctly. _

'_This… _business?_' she echoed dangerously. Shelby met her gaze undaunted. _

'_It was not your family, Santana,' the woman stated evenly, 'you have to get on with your life. As does Brittany… and Rachel.' _

'_And _Quinn?_' Santana jerked her head towards where the blonde sat stiffly, holding court for the guests who had come to pay their respects. Perhaps _today_ had been the performance of her young life - Santana had always known that Quinn was a phenomenal actress, but Q hadn't even flinched under the weight of their gazes, of the murmurings and speculations about her. She had found a dignity that was both impressive and chilling in its formality. The cold, crisp manners of her strict upbringing kept her back straight and her eyes dry through the service. Her grip on Santana's hand whilst they watched the coffins as they were lowered together into the ground had turned her knuckles white, but none would see it. Her gaze stayed level, her lips a firm line. Three parallel graves, three new tombstones. The smell of the freshly dug earth hung in the warm air and the crowd that gathered had silently watched as it tumbled down to cover them. A finality crashing down with each spadeful of dirt. _Dust to dust.

'_What happens to Quinn is up to her,' Shelby replied. 'But it is a journey she will have to face on her own, Santana. To come back from something like this…? You can't help her any more than you already have.' _

_Santana swallowed against the lump in her throat, her eyes narrowing as the men from the Mercedes convoy approached the blonde, hovered by her, paying their respects no doubt. Again, Santana's hackles rose, that unusual feeling of apprehension, of danger. _

'_What if she doesn't come back from this?' the Latina asked softly. But it was not a question that Shelby could answer. It was not a question that anyone could. _

_Ten days later, Santana left Lima, the door to her childhood closing softly behind her. _

* * *

><p><em>Quinn hadn't s<em>_een him since she was a child, and even then the memories were hazy. However, the minute she saw him, she knew who he was. It was a strange feeling of recognition, like her body identified him instinctively and waited for her brain to catch up. _

'_Uncle Mike,' she greeted, unable, quite, to smile. The day had been filled with awkward statements of sentimentality, with platitudes and ruminations. Quinn knew well enough that she had become a social pariah by her very nature now – no one knew what to say, no one knew how to act. And most of them were afraid of her, afraid because she made them so uncomfortable. She despised their pitying looks. 'Thank you for making the effort to come all this way…'_

'Lucy_,' the man replied, 'little Lucy. Or do they call you Quinn now?'_

_The younger men that flanked him backed away slightly as he reached for a chair, surprising her by sitting down next to her. He was her father's age, maybe a little older, well groomed and attractive. Every birthday she received a small gift from him, signed in his elegant scrawl, every year her mother had suggested going across to Chicago to see him, every year her father had found an excuse. Her breath caught a little as she looked into his eyes, a terrible shock of recognition sending a chill across her body. _

'_Don't thank me for coming today,' he said firmly, his voice gravelly as he spoke in low tones, 'your father was like a brother to me. And dear Judy… dear Judy… I'm sorry, Quinn, for your loss. More than you will ever know.'_

_Quinn levelled her gaze at him, suspicion narrowing her eyes. Grief or not, she was sharp enough to listen to her own instincts and at this moment her instincts were screaming at her. His eyes stayed on hers, steadily reading her. _

'_You always were a tough little thing,' he said quietly. And she wished that it wasn't so complicated to be a goddamn Fabray. Wished that so much of their history hadn't been swept under the carpet. Wished that she had known more about the web of intrigue that had engulfed them. But she had never taken the time, never thought to probe, or uncover the secrets they held._

'_Thank you for coming,' the brittleness of her voice rang even in her own ears and a flicker of expression crossed his features at being dismissed. _

'_There are things that we need to discuss. Not now, not today. But soon. Very soon, Quinn.'_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: thanks for reading. Please review if you have the time.**


	11. Tangled Web

A/N:  Thank you to everyone who is still reading this and to those who review - I know that it has been ages since it has been updated. It is really gratifying that there are some people out there who are understanding this fic and thinking about it. There has been some negative feedback which I would like to respond to - the story that I am writing is about characters who have flaws and so automatically some of their actions are not going to be things that everyone would be comfortable with or agree with, in fact that is why it is a story. I write more about Quinn in this because she is the character who I feel is most flawed - the story is about the history of the relationship between these characters and I am not trying to get you to side with one or the other, just tell you a story about what happened to them. Anyway - here is another installment.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 11 - Tangled Web<span>

'Thanks, Roy,' Rachel called over her shoulder as she flung open the door at the back of the car. 'Just hover around... this shouldn't take very long.'

'Very good, ma'am,' he answered and she rolled her eyes in response.

'And _please_ cut out the ma'am, it makes me feel ridiculous.'

She always told him not to call her that, but he always did. It drove her crazy.

'Yes, ma'am.'

He gave her a slightly superior look as he drove off, and instead she braced herself for the task at hand.

Rachel paused to look up at the building, a sigh pulling itself from her lips. Of all the places that she had anticipated being at 11am on Monday morning, outside one of the most prestigious boys schools in New York was _not_ one of them. Santana owed her. Santana owed her _big_. She flipped back her long dark hair as she strode forward, pushing her way through the large glass doors and into the school.

She made her way swiftly down the corridor, the mill of children rushing around her, oblivious to this adult who did not share their world. Rachel took off her sunglasses as she walked, snapping them shut and placing them into her Rebecca Minkoff bag. One of the male teachers stopped and watched her appreciatively as she strode passed him; maybe he recognised her, maybe he didn't. Her face was more often in the gossip magazines than out of it these days, but she was still primarily a Broadway actress and so actual recognition was variable.

As she walked into the foyer before the principal's office she felt an unfamiliar tug of dread… it had been a long time since she had entered a school, and even longer since she had been summoned to the principal's office. On the two occasions she had been there in her final year, she had had a simmering and sullen blonde by her side. The memory, long forgotten until this day, was both sweet and sad. How different their lives may have been, she thought wistfully, but regret was not something that Rachel invested much time in anymore.

The present day principal's office was much more ornate than Mckinley high had ever been. Four parents hovered stony-faced in the waiting area, and they reeked of money; expensive clothes, expensive jewellery, expensive perfume. Rachel ignored them as she stepped towards the desk, putting on her most dazzling stage smile. After years of auditions and recalls, of fighting and fighting to get what she wanted, Rachel Berry could perform any role you wanted her to – and this was no exception.

'Rachel Berry,' she introduced herself to the slightly harassed looking receptionist who gawked at her a moment. Clearly someone did recognise her. 'I'm here for Carlos Lopez-Pierce. His mother spoke to the school earlier to say that I would be coming in her place.'

'Lopez-Pierce?' The receptionist echoed hesitantly, '_Lopez_-Pierce?'

'Pull yourself together Janet,' a man who was evidently the receptionist's supervisor cut in. He looked at Rachel with the kind of smug look in his eyes that she was sure was reserved for the parents of the troublemaking kids. The actress felt a stab of protective ire flash through her at that and her gaze hardened. The supervisor gestured dismissively to the corner of the room, 'he's sitting over there. Principal Hicks would like to have a word with the boys and their parents once they have all arrived.'

Inwardly Rachel groaned. Of course, she had been expecting this – though she had been hoping to avoid the experience. She was intuitive enough to know that these principal/students/parents things were more about pitting the parents of badly behaved kids against each other than it was finding the root-cause of the trouble.

'_Thanks_,' she replied curtly, ignoring the other adults in the room in favour of finding her charge. He was sitting on the chair in the corner, legs swinging as he glowered at the floor. It was apparent that he had suffered a bloody nose, and if the scratches and scrapes on his arms were anything to go by, he had been involved in quite a scuffle. His uniform was in disarray. Rachel had to stop herself from rolling her eyes, wondering what had possessed Brittany and Santana to send their kid to a school that insisted on the children wearing uniforms.

She came to a halt in front of him and folded her arms across her chest.

'Carlos,' she greeted somewhat dangerously, the smallest of smiles on her lips. He snapped out of his glower to look up at her sharply, a surprised smile flashing across his cheeky face.

'Mami sent _you?_' he asked, clearly surprised. He had been worrying about which of his parents were going to turn up. It was usually Momma, and he often felt that it was better that she arrive with her wide, disappointed blue eyes than it was to have his Mami appear in her storm of fierceness. But this development left him confused. Aunt Rach was an unknown quantity. She was usually fun and playful with him, and she liked to listen to what he had to say rather than ignoring him like other adults tended to, but then there was an edge to her that made him know that she was not someone to be messed with.

'Evidently,' Rachel replied dryly, before picking up the ice pack that had been discarded on the chair and gently pressing it against his face. Well at least she wasn't yelling. And she didn't look sad and disappointed like Momma.

'It's cold,' he whined, hoping to garner some support.

'You'll live,' she replied unsympathetically.

Twenty minutes later, and Rachel Berry was starting to lose her patience. They were crammed into the principal's office; four glowering children and six stone-faced adults, and really, Rachel had better things to be doing with her time. The principal, in her opinion, was as spineless as Principal Figgins had been and was more concerned with stroking the egos of some of the rich parents than he was sorting out the mess that Carlos had apparently caused. The little boy was glaring at the floor and to be honest, Rachel didn't really blame him.

'I think that we have heard enough,' Rachel cut in as the principal started on yet another ego-stroking venture towards the evidently wealthy and over-protective mother to her left. The number of chairs in the room had been limited, and she had decided to stand behind the one that Carlos had chosen rather than sit beside him.

'Carlos, apologise,' she instructed firmly. The boy looked up at her mutinously, his brown eyes furious.

'But they were _bullying_ her!' he objected self-righteously. And seriously, Rachel could see his point – if only things could remain as straightforward as when you were seven years old. But the world introduced shades of grey, and nothing remained simple for long.

'It's not the motivation but the method that you need to apologise for,' she replied seriously, pointedly ignoring the others in the room. 'Bullying is very wrong, and you are right to try to stop it… but trying to stop it with your fists is equally wrong. All that fighting will do is cause more trouble.'

She held his gaze for a long moment as she let that sink in. He looked so much like Santana that she couldn't help but feel her heart go out to him. The fierce dark eyes, the stubborn frown.

'Now, apologise,' she said softly, and for a moment she thought that he was going to object some more. She raised an eyebrow at him pointedly and he reluctantly complied.

'He's suspended for the rest of the week,' the principal announced as Rachel made it clear that she was about to leave. She turned a withering look on the man.

'And you really think that is an _effective_ form of discipline?' she asked icily. Tension thickened in the room and she raised her chin haughtily. 'And what of your three bullies? Suspension as well I presume?'

The principal looked uncomfortable and a couple of the parents looked outraged. It was awkward trying to suspend the offspring of the rich and famous, especially when you were trying to garner their favour.

'It would be highly inappropriate for you to _claim_ to have a no tolerance policy towards bullying if you don't actually follow it through, don't you think?' She pressed on meaningfully. She gestured towards the bruising on Carlos' face. 'And the evidence suggests that they didn't exactly play the victim when one little boy tried to defend his friend. If you are going to suspend Carlos for fighting, it seems only logical to suspend the others for fighting as well. Same crime, same punishment.'

Her dark eyes were hard. The principal squirmed.

'It seems only fair,' he reluctantly agreed, taking an intense dislike to the latest addition to the entourage of one of his most troublemaking students. And at his announcement, there was a cry of outrage from one of the mothers and the beginnings of an objection from another. Carlos grinned with a swell of triumph. The harassed principal huffed. 'What did you say your name was again?'

That dazzling stage smile lit up her face, not quite making it to her eyes.

'I didn't,' she replied, 'Rachel Berry.'

The man seemed to choke on his own tongue, his cheeks turning rosy as he put the name and face together. But it was already too late.

'Come on, Carlos.'

She turned on her heal and strode towards the door, opening it briskly. She had spent far too much precious time cooped up here already. The little boy looked smugly over at the older bullies he had fought with. He may have lost the initial battle, but Aunt Rach had definitely won him the war and they all knew it.

'_Now._'

He wiped the grin off his face and scurried to get off the chair and out of the door as quickly as possible.

* * *

><p>The commotion that was rippling through the normally tranquil offices caught Santana's attention the minute she arrived back from the courthouse. She paused at the door of her office and grabbed a passing paralegal by the elbow.<p>

'What the _hell_ is going on?'

The girl looked up at her with wide eyes.

'Santana, thank god. Ms Stanton-Lee wants to see you immediately. She couldn't reach you on your phone…'

'I went straight to court for the Brody case. What's happening?'

'She's in the boardroom,' the paralegal took an unsteady breath. 'The firm has just taken over the Joe Waters case.'

Incomprehension and then a wave of disgust rippled through Santana at the recognition of the name. She felt physically sick. The shock must have shown on her face as the paralegal took her arm and pushed her in the direction of the boardroom.

'She wants you on it.'

The scene within the lofty room was reminiscent of an unusual battlefield; boxes and boxes of files and a swarm of junior associates rifling through everything in a frantic rush. Kimberly Stanton-Lee caught sight of her from her position amidst the chaos and beckoned her over, her expression serious.

'You _can't_ be taking this case,' Santana stated quietly once she was within earshot. Kimberly was a partner at the firm. Attractive and approachable but still a partner. They sized each other up momentarily.

'It's _very_ high profile,' she replied pointedly. The firm could certainly do with a few more of them.

'Because he murdered _twelve people_ in cold blood,' Santana retorted, 'you seriously cannot want to defend him?'

'The case is huge…'

'He's _mafia_.'

Kimberly's eyebrow rose challengingly and the Latina folded her arms across her chest. There were a few cases that treaded a thin line for Santana morally, but being part of the defence of a man who was likely to have killed many more than the twelve he was accused of really grated the wrong way.

'Santana – we already took the case, and we will very shortly be going to court. I want my best people on this team. That includes _you_.'

Santana stared at the older woman, her dark eyes hard.

'I'm first chair on the Brody case,' she said stiltedly. 'We have been in court all morning.'

'I'm taking you off it,' Kimberly returned her gaze with equal steel, 'you are working this case and I don't want to hear anything more about it from you, understood?'

Santana exhaled the air through her teeth, the unsettling feeling churning within her. It was moments like this that reminded her that the firm essentially owned her. She nodded almost imperceptibly; of course she would do whatever a partner in the firm asked her to.

'You have some kind of medical connection, don't you?' Kimberly asked after the tense moment had passed between them. Santana shrugged.

'My father is a doctor.'

'Great,' Kimberly was all business as she gestured to an intimidating stack of files at the end of the table, 'that's all yours then.'

Santana raised an eyebrow, wondering if it was even worth asking what the hell she was meant to be doing with them.

'Medical reports. Of all the alleged victims including their post-mortems. I want you to familiarise yourself with them. We have a strategy meeting in 3 hours. Be ready.'

Santana ground her teeth in irritation, turning to the stack and wondering if there was anything worse to be doing than trawling through the gruesome murder victims final hours.

'He has been awaiting a court date for at least three months,' she said speculatively, '_why_ have we only just got the case?'

Kimberly met her gaze again, holding it silently for a moment as though she was weighing something up before speaking in that fresh, clear voice of hers.

'Because his previous lawyer was found dead in the early hours of the morning.'

An obvious hush descended in the room in response to the statement.

Kimberly straightened, her green eyes scanning the boardroom seriously as the junior associates paused in their activities. No one dared to speak for a tense second or two, and slowly the associates started moving again, as though a heavy blanket had fallen across them.

'Fuck,' Santana muttered to herself.

* * *

><p>'Tell me about the fight.'<p>

It was certainly an order and not a question. Aunt Rachel smoothed her dark hair back and looked at him intently in a way that spelt out _trouble_ in his seven year old mind. Carlos chewed on his lip as he looked up at her from across the table at the diner.

'Can I get a milkshake?' He tried innocently.

'No.'

'Soda?'

'No.'

'But I'm _thirsty_…'

Rachel pursed her lips as she glanced down at the laminated menu, allowing herself to take pity on him a little… he was adorable after all, and he was developing a black eye already. The mere sight of it blooming across his smooth, young skin was enough to start her blood boiling.

'You may have juice or water,' she said grudgingly, 'if you are going to get wired on sugar it may as well be natural sugar.'

'Thanks, Auntie Rach.' He flashed her a smile but her serious expression did not budge. Tough audience. He tapped his palms on the table as he read the menu, deliberating in the careful way his Momma did before choosing in a delicate manner that was totally unsuited to a seven year old. Rachel watched him closely, trying to get a grip on her own protective ire. She couldn't even imagine how crazy she would be if she had children of her own, she would never let them out of her sight.

'Now,' she started again once she had ordered some drinks, 'tell me about the fight.'

The boy slumped down in his chair.

'Do I _have_ to?'

The whiny tone made her smile.

'Yes,' she replied equally firmly. 'We have talked about fighting before, little man. And while your parents have exclusive rights to discipline you, as your auntie I absolutely have the right to lecture you.'

His wide dark eyes met hers for a moment and then he dropped his head into his hands dramatically. He knew, as well as anyone, that a lecture from Auntie Rach was a fate worse than death.

* * *

><p><strong>Lima. September 2012<strong>

_Summer had come and gone and Quinn had barely seen it, still lost in her haze of guilt and grief. It was the week before her eighteenth birthday that Uncle Mike came to visit her again, the visit that she had anticipated with a dark dread._

'_You were expecting me,' he stated in that deep, quiet voice after the pleasantries had been exchanged. He held a box in his hands and the same man, with a ragged scar across his right cheek hovered by the door. Quinn's eyes flicked apprehensively between them, careful to fold her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting nervously._

'_You said that you would come.' She replied, her heart hammering hard._

_Uncle Mike was sitting opposite her, in the careful way that men of power sit and she willed him not to say the words that she feared that he might. The fragile veil of the lie remained intact as long as the words were not spoken, as long as nothing was spoken aloud she could pretend that she did not see the truth. A heavy grief swelled within her then, for her mother, for the woman that she realised she had not really known at all... and how she never would. _

'_Yes I did.'_

_He did not smile this time, but watched her in the silence between them. Held her gaze, the gaze that reflected his own._

'_Russell worked for me for a long time…' He started. _

'_I know.' Quinn cut him off. _

_Another pause. He could see the cold resistance in her posture and sighed deeply in response. He had hoped that the time he had given her would be enough, but in the moment that he had seen her, he knew that he was wrong. The time had not made her grief softer, but hardened it. _

'_I cared deeply about your mother,' he tried again. And this time it was the sharpness of her gaze that stopped him._

'_Don't talk to me about her,' the girl said quietly. _

'_I know that you don't want to hear it…'_

'_No,' Quinn smiled then, a smile of disdain that did nothing to soften her features. She was as impenetrable as a fortress. 'You don't know anything about me.'_

_It was not said petulantly as it might have been, but a plain statement of fact. She wanted him gone and away from her. Gone in every possible way that he could be gone. To have never existed._

_He smiled softly._

'_I've known you your whole life, Quinn.'_

_The words skirted around the statement that was obvious to them both. He wanted to tell her gently but then caught his breath as he recognised the look in her eyes, the steady, hard gaze and the fear behind it. She knew, he realised. She knew and clearly had known and held the truth heavily within herself. They were more alike than he had appreciated. The girl swallowed. _

'_I don't need to hear it, Michael. I know what you are. I know what you are to me,' she stated, 'but it is nothing more than genetics - you are as much a stranger to me as a man on the street. Russell being dead doesn't change that.'_

_She looked away for a moment, as though the hard words had taken more effort to speak evenly than she had anticipated. She closed her eyes briefly._

'_Why did you bribe them to alter the police report?' Quinn's question caught him off guard. _

_Michael flexed his fingers. _

'_What makes you think that it is altered?' _

'_Because it was,' the blonde replied shortly, her eyes flicking certainly to his, 'I know my house... And I knew my family. The report states that they were all upstairs together, that the fire originated from the room that they were in.'_

_Her eyes glazed over as she looked down at the carpeted floor, seeing but not seeing it. _

'…_it states that the fire was accidental.'_

_Michael's face was a careful mask as he listened to her words, his eyes cold. At the door behind him the scarred man listened with interest, leaning back against the wall. Quinn ignored the churning fear that gnawed at her. _

'_What are you trying to say Quinn?' Michael asked dangerously. _

_She felt a tremble run across her skin. At the edge of her awareness was a fear that she was slowly being allowed to see the ugly truth, that the thoughts that had been occupying her relentlessly since the funeral were finally able to be voiced._

'_That my family was murdered.'_

_He was still for a moment, then the muscle at his jaw twitched. Quinn daren't even blink as she watched him, her throat burning. Everything in his reaction just confirmed her darkest thoughts. _

'_And you bribed the police to cover it up.'_

_He measured her up. A small smile twitched at his lips. Smarter than he had given her credit for, and cold as ice._

'_And why would I do that, Quinn?' he asked leadingly, an eyebrow arching upwards. 'Why?'_

_Her gaze was steady. _

'_That's my question.'_

* * *

><p>'Goddamn it Quinn! Pick up the phone!'<p>

It was the millionth message that Brittany had left on the other blonde's voicemail in three days and she was starting to get frantic. She glanced at the large glass doors through to the boardroom within which the publicity director held court, running through the images that would shortly be rolling out across New York and then the country. Her conviction that Quinn would support her despite the intense breach of privacy was starting to waver… Maybe it was because she had finally started to realise the extent of what she had done, that at some point she was going to have to turn around to her old friend and say "hey, Q, all those times that we were chatting and messing about with the camera, and you were telling me your biggest fears and secrets… yeah, all those times that you trusted me… well I made them into a beautiful film… and I am going to broadcast them to the world… _sorry_."

'Any luck?'

Brittany groaned as she turned towards Simon who had followed her out of the meeting.

'Her cellphone must be dead or something. She's been gone for three days now.'

'Do you know when she is back?'

'If I knew that, do you think I would be this worried?' Brittany demanded, flashing him an exasperated look. After so many years of marriage, some of Santana's mannerisms had been bound to rub off on her.

'Hey! Don't take this out on me, I'm trying to help you here,' he retorted.

'I know. I know and… I'm sorry,' Brittany sighed, 'it's just… they are bringing the dates forward again for the publicity and… I'm feeling the pressure a bit, okay? She was meant to be in Harvard just for the weekend.'

Simon took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder, checking that there was no one within earshot of them.

'I know, Britt,' he murmured quietly, 'I know the pressure that you are under. And I know that you are trying, really trying.'

'But I haven't got her signature on the papers yet…'

'No,' he let out a tense breath through his teeth, 'but if she is a sure thing, if she is as loyal to you as you say she is… then maybe we can go with the original documents. No one else has to know, Britt. It's just you and me… And you can tell her when she comes back. But only if you are _sure_. Only if _she_ is a sure thing.'

* * *

><p>Santana drummed her fingers on her arm as she listened to Kimberly prep the team of associates that were perched around the boardroom table. The uncomfortable churning in her stomach had not dissipated from the morning, and reading briefly through the files had not helped matters. Twelve murders. Probably more.<p>

'…I want each and every one of you to be fully committed to this case, despite any personal reservations that you may have.' Kimberly's eyes fell briefly on Santana as she finished her little speech and San met her gaze evenly. She wasn't going to apologise for feeling awkward about defending this man.

'His plea is not guilty but he was not awarded bail at his last hearing,' Edward stated, 'Santana, what do you think of the previous legal team's strategy?'

She exhaled slowly, looking up.

'Well, I've not examined the files in depth yet, but I think that their approach was bold and may well incur reasonable doubt,' she shrugged a shoulder, 'Mr Waters claims that it was his partner Dan Holbrook who was responsible for the murders of eleven of the victims. The cause of death for all of them is major haemorrhage following knife injury, and we have a forensic expert statement that the murder weapon for each is likely to have been a five inch switchblade. The one that does not fit the pattern is the twelfth victim, which was Mr Holbrook himself who died from a gunshot wound through the back of the head.'

'The circumstantial evidence that links Joe Waters to each of the victims also leads Dan Holbrook to each of them,' one of the other associates added, with an expectant look. 'The only murder that cannot be accounted for is that of Dan Holbrook himself.'

'Who Mr Waters is claiming was killed by a rival organisation,' Santana added sceptically. What was worse than defending this guy, was realising that they may well be able to get him off. And that would always be on her conscience.

* * *

><p><strong>Lima. September 2012<strong>

_Quinn was sitting in the same position in her wheelchair long after Uncle Mike and his companion had left the Lopez house. The box that he had brought with him lay heavily across her knees, and the presence of it was making it difficult for her to breathe._

'_Be careful, Quinn,' a soft voice came from the doorway and she looked up with shock to the gentle expression of Maribel Lopez's face. _

'_Pardon?' _

'_I said "be careful". Men like that… nothing good comes from men like that,' Santana's mother said softly, coming slowly into the room and settling herself down on the seat that Michael had vacated half an hour before._

'_You don't even know who they are,' Quinn replied quietly, looking down again at the heavy box on her lap. Michael's words echoing around her head, burning inside her chest. Maribel raised an eyebrow. _

'_Before I came to this country, I saw many things, Quinn,' she replied in the cryptic way that Santana's mother often spoke, 'things that will haunt me until I die. There are many bad people in this world. Bad people like those men.'_

_Quinn looked up sharply at her. _

'_Were you listening?' she asked directly. _

'_I didn't have to.'_

_Quinn took a shaky breath, trying to re-establish some sort of equilibrium within herself. _

'_He's my father,' she said softly, her voice cracking on the word that fell from dry lips. Surprised she could even say it. _

'_I know,' Maribel whispered, her eyes filled with a heavy sympathy that she could not express. 'You can tell by the eyes… the structure of your cheekbones. You are very alike.'_

_The Latina sighed, stopping herself from reaching out to the fragile girl in front of her who had started to tremble. _

'_I didn't know… My mother never told me,' Quinn whispered. 'Russell never… he never… Don't tell Santana. Please. I couldn't bear for anyone to…'_

_The tears that tracked down her cheeks were silent and Quinn brushed at them furiously with the back of her hand. Maribel watched her steadily, unfazed by the tears, or by the revelation. _

'_I don't know who I am anymore…' the blonde girl whispered, 'I don't know what I am.'_

_She swallowed thickly, her hands trembling against the armrests of the wheelchair, the awful heaviness of the box on her lap. _

'_There is this darkness inside me… this blackness. And it is swallowing everything. Everything.' She took a ragged breath, looking up to meet the woman's eyes once more, 'I just feel angry. So furiously angry. And it is consuming everything. Every thought that I have… and every day, I lose sight even further of what I was before, of the things that I wanted. I feel like I am just a shell. A nothing.'_

_And finally Maribel did cover the girl's trembling hand with her own, squeezing the icy fingers. _

'_It can get easier, Quinn,' she stated quietly, 'not now. Maybe not even a year from now, or two. But it can get better, eventually, if you choose for it to be. There is always a choice. A choice for anger, or vengeance, or for love. It may not seem like it, but that is the choice that you are making, today, and everyday. Find something in this world that is worth holding onto, and it will pull you through your darkness. And oneday, you will wake up and find that it is easier, that things are slowly getting better.'_

_Quinn closed her eyes, focussing hard to control her breathing and letting Maribel's words sink in, but all she could hear were echoes of Michael's voice. Of the ugly truth that he had unravelled for her. The minutes stretched on, but Maribel's gentle grip on her hand did not falter, and eventually when she opened her eyes, she was calmer. _

'_Thank you,' she whispered._

'_Don't thank me,' Santana's mother replied chidingly, 'now, some lunch, Quinn. You are fading away.'_

_She stood to go back through to the kitchen, gesturing for Quinn to follow her before noting the box on her lap. _

'_What did he give you?' she asked absently as she made her way towards the door, not noticing the way in which Quinn froze for a moment._

'_Early birthday present,' the girl recovered quickly, glancing down at the box as Maribel left the room. Feeling sick at the weight of the Colt M1911 that lay beneath the fine tissue paper. _

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading - please review.<p> 


	12. The Choice

**AN: thank you to everyone who has reviewed - knowing that a few people are engaged in the story gives me incentive to share it. I love that a few of you have theories as to what may be happening or what has happened in the past for the characters - it is great to hear them. I will try to update a little more freqently for the next few chapters. Thanks again.**

* * *

><p>.<p>

Chapter 12 - The Choice

**Boston. 2016.**

_Flucloxacillin. Amoxicillin. Piperacillin… Quinn had fallen asleep in the lecture theatre somewhere between the penicillins and the macrolides, sliding down in her chair so far that the elderly lecturer probably couldn't see her anyway. She always struggled with staying awake in his lectures, and had decided that it was more efficient for her study from a pharmacology textbook than actually listen to him. Strangely, it was the only time she could sleep uninterrupted by nightmares._

'_Q,' the student next to her had nudged her awake, 'your phone was ringing.'_

'_Thanks,' she murmured sleepily as she snatched it up, an unknown number flashing up on the screen again. She answered it quietly as she ducked out of the lecture theatre, slipping quickly through the double doors into the empty foyer._

'_Hello?' she asked again, her eyes adjusting to the natural light._

'_Hello Quinn.'_

_The sound of Mike's voice over the phone always sent a shiver down her spine, which, more often than not these days, was accompanied by a flare of anger. He had phoned her regularly over the years since the fire, their conversations short and jilted because of the cold fury she couldn't overcome. She resented him for coming into her life, and more than that resented him for the murder of her family. Certainly he had not been the one to burn them to death, but knowing that it was because of his connection that Russell Fabray had been targeted gave her reason enough to blame him for it. _

'_I can't talk now,' she lied smoothly, 'I'm in a lecture.'_

'_It's important,' he stated. _

'_Fine.' _

_She leant herself against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. Waiting. _

'_You need to come to Chicago,' he said steadily. He often asked her to come, and she always refused. It was the same dance that they had danced a thousand times. When she had first been recovering from the fire he had tried many times, when she was still in her wheelchair, but she had elected to stay with the Lopez family instead._

_She remained silent, waiting for him to explain. _

'_I have him, Quinn,' Michael finally said. 'It has taken me four years, but I have him, just like I promised you that I would.' _

_And just like that Quinn felt herself freeze, hyperaware of the hairs that rose on the back of her neck, of the sudden speeding of her heart rate. Just like he had promised her in the Lopez sitting room the day that he had given her a gun. The Colt M1911 that was still in the same box on the top shelf of her wardrobe. Her eighteenth birthday present. _

'_I'll catch the next flight out,' she heard herself reply, the steadiness of her own voice sounded far away to her ears. Four years. Four years of waiting for this moment. Four years of trying to escape that night._

'_I'll get someone to pick you up at the airport.'_

_When she hung up the phone her hands were trembling, and she watched them intensely, trying to get a grip on herself. Four years of revenge fantasies that had occupied her thoughts, of what she could do to him, of what she wanted to do. Four years of reliving that night. Of trying to find herself again. Of thinking of her sister, of her mother, of Russell, and the terrifying way that they had died. _

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

Rachel swirled the Perrier around her glass, lost in thought as she watched the pale rim. The Lopez-Pierce house sometimes felt more like home to her than her own apartment, and on the nights that she was scheduled not to perform, she sometimes found herself here, sharing a glass of wine or two, reading stories with Carlos or watching Disney movies. It was only a small pang of jealousy that cut through her as she smiled and laughed with them; envious of the warmth of the house, of the family feeling that it inspired… a family that she sometimes yearned for herself. But there had only been one person that she could imagine in such a domestic fantasy, no matter how hard she tried to change that image, and that realisation made the reality even more bitter.

'Hey, San, I…' Brittany's clear voice called as she strode into the kitchen, the front door slamming closed behind her. The words halted abruptly, as did the woman. 'Rachel?'

The singer glanced up at the tall blonde who she had known for so many years and she felt unexpected tears sting at her eyes.

'Hi,' she said softly. The look of surprise on the blonde's face was quickly replaced with something else, an expression that Rachel could not read.

'I thought you weren't talking to me,' Brittany stated, her blue eyes level. For the weeks and months that they had not spoken had weighed heavily on her, and the friendship had changed between them because of it. Rachel shrugged a shoulder in response.

'I wasn't,' she whispered, a small wry smile curving the corner of her mouth. 'I'm sorry - it was childish of me.'

Brittany slowly stepped forward, dropping her bag down onto the chair by the counter.

'Well, you have become more stubborn with age,' Brittany commented softly, looking at Rachel seriously.

'Is that so?' She echoed.

'It is,' the blonde replied, finally allowing a small smile to curl the corners of her lips, 'when you told San you wouldn't ever talk to her again it only lasted three weeks.'

'I was angry at the time,' Rachel thought back.

'Because she was right.'

'_Because_ she was meddling with things that she had no right to meddle with,' Rachel corrected.

'She was _still_ right.' Brittany echoed herself, a small smile curving her lips. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The words between them were strangely awkward, like speaking after such intense silence was awkward, the words sticking to their tongues and lips.

'Santana's working late,' Rachel said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. 'Some new case or something… she won't get away for a while.'

Brittany slowly settled herself down onto the chair beside her old friend, unsure of what to say.

'Thank you for collecting Carlos today… ' she started.

'Don't thank me,' Rachel cut her off. 'I love seeing the little troublemaker.'

'That boy…' Brittany shook her head, 'just _one_ week without a call from the principal would be a blessing. Just one.'

Rachel's eyes dipped down to the water glass again, swirling the clear liquid.

'Don't be too hard on him,' she said sympathetically, 'he had good intentions. He was defending his friend.'

'He's a little anarchist,' Brittany replied with a hint of exasperated affection. 'Always questioning authority, always causing mischief…'

'I think his mothers raised him that way,' Rachel smirked. Brittany met her gaze.

'Maybe,' she admitted.

They sat in silence a moment, Rachel gazing down at her water, Brittany staring at her hands.

'I've missed talking to you,' the blonde murmured finally. The lonely feeling of being severed from both Rachel and Santana had weighed heavily on her over the last few weeks, the unhappiness of it more potent than she had appreciated.

'I know that you disagree with what I have done… with the documentary and… everything. And I realise that I could have gone about it in a different way. A better way.'

She could feel Rachel's dark gaze on her, the intent look burning to her skin.

'I didn't think about Quinn when I was making it,' she admitted quietly, 'you were right. I didn't think about her. Not as a person. Not as my friend. I didn't want to… I was so caught up with the… the project. _My_ project. I didn't think of her. Of how I was _using_ her.'

The blue eyes shone in the glow of the kitchen lights as Brittany glanced up, meeting Rachel's intense gaze.

'You were right,' the blonde whispered, a sad smile tugging at her lips, 'of course you were right. And I'm going to tell her, before she leaves at the end of the week. I need to tell her.'

The breath hitched in her throat involuntarily.

'When does she leave?' Rachel asked softly.

Brittany's expression was sympathetic.

'Friday,' she replied.

And it wasn't relief that coursed through Rachel then, but panic. That suffocating feeling of the unstoppable passage of time; that in four days Quinn would leave her life again, and maybe never come back. Even though that is what she wanted. What she _thought_ that she wanted. Or maybe it was just what she wanted to want.

'Telling her is the right thing to do,' Rachel agreed, finally finding her voice and trying to quell the riptide of emotion. It was too late. Too late for so many things.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2018.<strong>

_When Rachel opened the door, she had honestly expected it to be Santana. At a push it could have been Brittany – but Brittany would never hammer on her door like that so it was likely to be the Latina. She opened it violently, ready to give her an earful, the words dying on her lips as Quinn glanced up. The blonde looked a mess. Hair all over the place, sweatshirt and jeans, no make-up; somewhat reminiscent of a child in the way that she blinked at her. _

_It was 4am. They hadn't seen each other for months, since baby Carlos had been born in New York._

'_You're waking up my neighbours,' Rachel hissed._

'_Sorry,' Quinn replied reflexively as the brunette angrily blocked her doorway. The blonde seemed totally unfazed by her fury, which annoyed Rachel all the more. _

'_What are you doing here?' she demanded irritably, her hands automatically finding their way to her hips. She already knew the answer. _

'_San told me what happened,' Quinn's voice was soft. The smooth edge of sympathy coated her words like honey._

'_And?' _

_The hazel gaze fixed on her steadily as the blonde shrugged a shoulder, as though the explanation had been enough. _

'_Go away Quinn,' Rachel ordered through clenched teeth. _

'_I'm coming with you.' _

_And that soft statement in its terrible earnest way was the final straw for Rachel._

'_You have a lot of nerve even turning up here,' she hissed angrily, 'you're not invited. You are not wanted. Go away, Quinn. Go the hell away.' _

_She moved to shut the door, but the girl leant against it, jamming her foot in against the doorframe. _

'_If you want to drive up, then I will drive you,' the blonde said quietly, 'if you want to fly up, then I will sit next to you. You don't have to do this alone.'_

_Rachel bristled even further at the none too subtle mention of her paralysing fear of flying. _

'_Fuck off, Quinn.'_

_And this time she did slam the door, the blonde yelping on the other side as she jumped out the way to save her foot. Rachel leant back against the frame for a moment to calm the anger inside. _

_Thirty minutes later, she opened the door once more, disappointed but not surprised to see the girl waiting for her on the landing. Quinn glanced up, rubbing at her eyes, and a small, rational part of Rachel marvelled at how stubborn they both could be._

_She locked the door behind her and ignored the blonde as she walked towards the elevator, knowing that the taller girl was behind her. When the doors slid open she stepped in and punched at the button, hoping that the doors would close on the blonde. Quinn slipped in narrowly. _

_Rachel's mouth was a thin line, ignoring the blonde resolutely. Quinn seemed content in the silence, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of her feet in the way that she had used to before a Cheerio's routine. As the elevator doors opened, Quinn snatched the handle of Rachel's suitcase and rolled it out after her, marching through the lobby with a flabbergasted brunette rushing to keep up with her longer stride. She paused at the doors, cocking head to the side. _

'_Your car or mine?' Quinn asked. _

'_You are not wanted Quinn,' the brunette stated, 'when will you get that through your thick skull?'_

_The blonde glanced at her. _

'_I totally agree, Rachel. My car. I have a much better stereo.' _

_She started to move towards her car with the suitcase before Rachel grabbed her arm forcefully, digging her nails in. The blonde winced, pausing mid-stride. _

'_Oww.'_

'_Stop! Just, stop. Stop it,' Rachel snapped, 'I don't want you here. I don't want anyone here. Please respect that and go away. Please just leave me alone.' _

_Quinn sighed, her grip on the suitcase not loosening, the early morning light dancing across her features. She had always been stubborn, they both had; it was always a mystery as to which one of them would win their arguments. Beneath the anger she could see the pain, the uncertainty, the fear… she knew that she could not leave Rachel, even if it was what the brunette thought that she wanted._

'_I respect that. I do... But I can't let you go on your own… not in the way that you must be feeling. I will drive you to Lima and you can sleep in the car. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. I just want to get you there in one piece.'_

_Rachel's lip trembled, her dark eyes remaining angry and hard. _

'_My daddy is dying, Quinn. He's dying,' she stated, the cold, fresh air of the morning stealing the words from her lips. _

'_We don't know that,' the blonde gathered her towards her, holding the resistant body against her own until Rachel finally started to cry, until she went limp and Quinn had to tighten her grip just to keep her upright._

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

'You're not thinking about the case, Lopez.'

Santana jumped, and then felt irritated at herself for her reaction. In the doorway Ben Foster smirked at her.

'Of course I am,' she replied firmly. It was a lie. Her thoughts had been far away, thinking mostly of her little boy, and the fact that he was yet again suspended from school. Aside from the obvious issue of him being suspended, finding babysitters for him during the day whilst she and Britt were at work was a nightmare. There came a point when asking Rachel to look after him again was a bit rude.

'Is there any particular reason that the firm's principal in-house investigator is casting his shadow in my doorway, Ben?' she asked pointedly. His smirk didn't vanish. Instead, he turned briefly to the door and slid it closed behind him, stepping further into the room.

'You hate this case,' he stated.

'Because it is bullshit,' she replied.

He shrugged.

'It's big,' he countered. 'And it is Kimberly's case. She became partner here for daring to take the cases that others _could_ not or _would_ not take.'

Santana leant back in her chair, listening closely. Ben had been at the firm for longer than she had, and he was smart, very, very smart. She always made time to listen to him if he had something that he needed to say.

'Do you think that we can win?' she asked thoughtfully. He smiled and settled down into the chair on the other side of her desk, playing with his pen between his fingers.

'That is what I came here to talk to you about,' he replied cryptically. 'I was looking through the details of the victims and I think that I have something… but I wanted to bring it to you first to see what you want to do about it.'

Santana cocked her head quizzically to the side.

'Why the secrecy?' she probed. He grinned at her.

'Because I'm not sure whether it would help or hurt our case,' he replied carefully. 'If we find out something that implicates our client, Kimberly will not be very pleased.'

Santana raised an eyebrow.

'Spill it,' she ordered, 'I have a seven year old son, Ben, my supply of patience is limited.'

He laughed easily, leaning forward in his chair.

'Ok,' he started, 'so ten of the victims were dead on arrival to hospital...'

'I know.'

'Which means, Santana, that two of them _were not_.' He paused for a moment to let it the information settle. 'One was brought in by ambulance. The other was left outside the ER. There is no record of the police ever questioning the hospital staff involved, or even looking at the footage.'

She tapped her nails against the surface of her desk.

'Which victims?'

'Numbers four and ten.'

Santana shrugged, shaking her head.

'It's a dead end,' she stated reluctantly, 'victim number four was eight years ago, number ten was two or three years ago… there is no way that anyone can remember anything of use for us now.'

'A gruesome mob killing like that?' Ben persisted, 'it is the kind of thing that you would remember for the rest of your life.'

Santana held his gaze for a moment, folding her arms slowly across her chest.

'Look into it,' she said finally, 'but let's keep it quiet, okay? And… be careful.'

He grinned again. 'Always.'

* * *

><p><strong>On the Interstate-80. Driving New York to Ohio. 2018.<strong>

_It took Rachel a moment or two to orientate herself when she awoke, with the uncomfortable ache in her neck and the sunshine through the window glaringly bright in her eyes. The gentle hum of the engine had quickly drifted her to sleep, and as she remembered where she was she wished that she could just forget again. The call that had come in the middle of the night from the hospital replayed again and again in her head. She pressed her eyes closed to try to block it out, until the humming from beside her caught her attention._

_From the corner of her eye she observed the blonde girl that she had once known so well, both intimately familiar and also an enigma. However long it had been since they had been lovers, the rawness of it was always fresh, the intensity of their interactions always high. Quinn's long fingers tapped against the steering wheel as the blonde watched the road and Rachel couldn't help strange desire to reach out and caress the smooth alabaster cheek, to see the smile on those lips as she looked over to Rachel, the desire and affection swirling in those hazel eyes. _

'_What time is it?' Rachel asked, her throat rough. _

_Quinn glanced across at her, an apprehensive smile on her lips as her posture straightened. _

'_Don't look so worried,' Rachel allowed herself a small smile, 'I'm not going to argue with you anymore today.'_

_At that, the blonde visibly relaxed a little, turning her attention back to the road. _

'_Thank god,' she murmured, 'I don't think I could go another round with angry!Rachel. Especially not when driving.'_

_The brunette pulled herself up a little in her seat, adjusting the blanket that had been laid over her. _

'_Don't be so dramatic,' she admonished, allowing herself a hint of a smile, 'I'm not that bad.'_

'_You tried to break my foot, Rach.' _

_Even that statement held a hint of affection and Rachel tried to quell the surge of familiar longing she felt. _

'_I'm sorry,' she said softly, 'I was hurting. And angry. I didn't mean to take it out on you.'_

_The blonde flicked her hair from her eyes, that same half-smile on her face, looking straight ahead. The light through the windshield made the gold of her hair glow, and Rachel marvelled in the strange feeling of watching her. Charting, subconsciously, the changes that the months and years had written on her skin._

'_Don't apologise. I've been there too, Rach,' Quinn replied quietly over the gentle music that was playing through the speakers, 'when you are so worried about losing the ones you love that you… you lash out at everyone.'_

_The heaviness of the statement brought back the black thoughts that had been haunting her since the night. Rachel's dark eyes slipped towards the road. It seemed never ending. _

'_Do you think that he will survive?' she asked hollowly. _

_Quinn's fingers stopped tapping against the steering wheel, taking on that strange stillness that she did when she was thinking. _

'_I think that his doctors will do everything they can,' she replied finally. It was no answer to the question. It was no answer at all, but it was all that she could say. It was all that she could say that she knew was true. But harder than she had prayed for many years, Quinn had found herself praying that morning for Leroy Berry, praying as she drove, as the road opened out before her and Rachel slept._

_Rachel tugged the blanket tighter around her, shrinking down into herself as she glanced down at the clock. 11.25. They had already been on the road for over six hours. How numb she felt, how numb and strangely disoriented, disembodied. _

_Quinn noticed the direction of her attention, and without really thinking she had already reached out, covering Rachel's soft hand with her own. _

'_I'm getting you there as fast as I can, baby,' she murmured, the term of affection so familiar that it fell from her lips without her intention. She froze the moment she said it, kept her focus on the road, afraid she had overstepped the mark. But as she pulled her hand away, Rachel's grip tightened, holding her in place, those wide brown eyes still focussed, as Quinn's were, on the road ahead. And slowly Quinn relaxed again, leaving her hand over Rachel's, the comforting warmth of the connection between them. _

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

Carlos had been _bored out of his mind_ for the last twenty minutes. Twenty minutes that felt like hours. He tapped the end of his pen irritably against the workbook, feeling uninspired by the Math exercises that he had to complete.

It was one of the worst things about being suspended from school, and he should know considering the number of times that he had been suspended before. Not that he had intended to get suspended, of course. He never _intended_ to get into trouble at all… it just, sometimes, happened.

Aunt Rachel and his Mami were talking in the kitchen, and on the last three occasions that he had wandered in there – firstly for a pencil, then for a glass of water, then for an eraser – he had been ushered back to his workbook again. It was so boring.

So when the doorbell rang, Carlos was the first person to jump up to go and run to it. And his mother was admonishing him from the hallway even before the door was fully open revealing an older woman who he had never set eyes on before in his life.

'Hello,' he said formally. She raised an eyebrow, and he felt a little uneasy, reminded strangely of Cruella DeVil.

'Hello,' she replied slowly, 'are you a Lopez?'

'Lopez-_Pierce_,' he corrected pointedly.

'Good,' she folded her arms, glancing up to his Mami who had appeared behind him. 'I'm trying to find Quinn Fabray.'

* * *

><p><strong>Chicago. 2016. <strong>

_The rain was heavy as the plane landed, the bright white flood lights of the airport sparkling off the raindrops on the small window as Quinn looked out into the dark night, the ghostly outline of her own face reflected back at her. Part of her absently wished that she had picked up a warmer jacket, or even grabbed an umbrella. But it was as though she was watching herself from afar, the steady actions of her body disconnected from the chaotic turmoil of her mind… She wasn't sure if she had any control over her own actions at all. _

There is a choice_. It was Maribel Lopez's words in her head, over and over again. _There is always a choice, Quinn_._

_But there is no choice in the anger that you feel. Anger is too soft a word for it. There is no choice in the fury. The grief. _

_She walked through the airport in a numb haze, and it was with no surprise that she spotted the man with the scar and the slate grey eyes waiting for her. He sent another shiver across her skin, with the dark anticipation of what may lie ahead. He stamped out his cigarette when he saw her emerge through the sliding doors, sizing her up with a flick of his eyes._

'_Welcome to Chicago,' he said in that dark, gravelly voice of his as she came to a halt in front of him. She wasn't sure whether it was sarcasm._

'_We should be careful that you aren't seen,' he advised. _

_As they drove through the rain, Quinn was silent, her thoughts far away in both place and time. Four years had passed since the fire, and yet it felt like no time at all. For all of it, her recovery, her decision to study, her acceptance to Harvard… It meant nothing. It all meant nothing. It was just passing the time between that moment and this one. _

_Eventually the car came to a halt, the engine gently purring, the rain heavy on the roof. Out through the rain, Quinn could make out a building, the lights were off as far as she could tell, the area deserted. _

'_He's in there?' she asked flatly. _

'_He is,' the scarred man replied. 'With Michael.'_

_Quinn stared out into the darkness, seeing and not seeing. _

'_You don't need to do this now,' the man said softly, 'you can take your time…'_

'_I don't need more time,' Quinn responded curtly. 'I have spent four years waiting. Waiting for this.' _

_She could feel the grey eyes on her, watching her steadily. He was a man of few words, she had realised. Mostly silent, which suited her well. _

'_Waiting to kill him?' He asked. _

_That strangely toxic thought had not been far from her mind. And in sitting there, so still, she had never felt so out of control. Her thoughts were racing with everything both past and present, and the longing, the thirst for justice, or, more accurately, for revenge, was all consuming._

There is a choice_, Maribel had said. _There is always a choice_. _

_The problem was that Quinn wasn't so sure that there was a choice anymore._

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading - please review.<p> 


	13. Why

**AN: Thanks again to everyone who is still reading this, and for the reviews. This chapter is slightly more in the past than the present, but we will be coming back to the present action shortly. I will try to continue to update a little more frequently. Thanks again. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13 - Why<strong>

**Present. New York.**

It was close to 1am when Santana was woken suddenly from her sleep to the familiar sound of the front door shutting softly in the middle of the night. A surge of adrenaline rushed through her, and she glanced at Brittany beside her, sleeping quietly. She quickly slipped out of bed, wondering to herself if she had, in fact, made it up.

Her feet were quiet on the carpet and she swiped the baseball bat from its resting place in the corner of the landing before slowly making her way down the stairs. The lights were on, a shadow moving slowly around the kitchen. She frowned, leaning into the light to catch a glimpse of the figure standing by the kitchen counter. It was the slope of the shoulders that gave her away.

'Jesus Christ, Quinn,' she hissed, dropping the bat to her side as she crossed the entrance hall into the kitchen. 'I was ready to crack you around the head with a baseball bat.'

The blonde had her back to her still, facing the windows in the soft glow of the lamp light. Santana took a deep breath to calm the racing of her heart.

'I'm tempted to still do it just for scaring me so much,' she huffed.

'Sorry,' the blonde's voice was quiet, 'I… I didn't know where else to go.'

And it was at that point that Santana found herself waking up a little bit more, a surge of protective anger bubbling up at her friend.

'And where the hell have you been?' she hissed. Still, Quinn didn't turn around and it was just as Santana stepped behind her that she replied.

'Harvard,' she whispered.

'Quit lying to me,' Santana's anger and confusion swirled together potently and she found herself grabbing Quinn's arm to turn her around, but the blonde shrugged her off.

'I'm not lying…'

'Letitia Lennox was here. She came _here_ looking for you, Quinn. So start telling me the goddamn truth. Where have you been?'

And this time when Santana grabbed her arm, Quinn didn't have the strength to resist.

'I didn't know where else to go,' she whispered, furiously swiping at the tears with the back of her hand. Her make-up was smeared across her face, the tear tracks fresh and Santana froze, uncertain as to what this meant. Something about Quinn crying was devastatingly heartbreaking for her… maybe because it was so very rare to see the blonde cry. Maybe because the times she had the reasons had been those which had rocked Santana's world, on the edge of the biggest changes in her life. When she gave Beth up for adoption Quinn had cried on her shoulder. In the dreadful aftermath of the fire she had heard Quinn cry herself to sleep. And then that final, dreadful time when Quinn had left, packed her backs in such a hurry, unable to see for the blurring of her vision…

'Where have you been, Quinn?' she breathed, tightening her grip on the blonde's arms, the sharp edge evident in her tone. 'What happened?'

But the blonde just shook her head. Shook her head as she started to shake.

* * *

><p><strong>Lima. 2018. <strong>

'_You have odd socks on,' Rachel noted absently. It was the first thing that she had said in a long time, and Quinn glanced up from her textbook with a puzzled expression before glancing down at her feet. Sure enough, one was grey, the other black. It was the kind of thing that would drive Rachel Berry crazy she realised with a pang. She shrugged a shoulder. _

'_I dressed in a hurry,' she said as way of explanation. It had been three in the morning when San had woken her up. _

_Rachel wanted to tell her that she didn't need to stay, neither in the hospital nor in Lima, but she knew that it was unnecessary. Quinn would do whatever the hell Quinn wanted to, and secretly, Rachel was glad to have her there. She watched the brow furrow as the girl concentrated on her book, some silly medical text, and wondered again at the paths that had brought them here. _

'_Will you talk to them with me?' Rachel asked quietly, 'when the doctors come?'_

_They had been waiting in the relatives room next to the cardiothoracic intensive care unit for the best part of three hours now, and while logically Rachel could understand why the operation needed to take so long, it didn't stop every minute from being torture. _

_Quinn blinked up again, meeting her eyes before glancing briefly to Hiram Berry who was staring blankly out of the window. The man had barely acknowledged her presence since they had arrived, he had barely reacted to anything. Fear was paralysing, she understood that far too well._

'_I'll do whatever you want me to,' she replied finally._

_Rachel's lips twitched. _

'_That is hardly what you said this morning,' she commented, happy for the brief distraction from her gloomy thoughts and Quinn rolled her eyes in response. _

'_No… I guess not,' she admitted quietly, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so… difficult.' _

'_You were born difficult, Fabray,' Rachel replied, her eyes holding the hazel gaze across the small distance between them, and it was a warm thrill that danced across her skin as she recognised the danger of what she was doing... but there was something so familiar, so right, about flirting with Quinn Fabray. The quiet was heavy in the room as the blonde replied in low tones. _

'_I just wanted you safe, you know,' she stated seriously, refusing to play the flirtatious game that Rachel was angling for, 'I can't really help that.'_

_And it was statements like that that were starting to mess with Rachel's head, for they sent a warmth up her spine that reminded her poignantly of the intense connection they had once shared. _

_Quinn was half asleep on the hospital chairs in the early evening when the door to the relative's room finally re-opened. Leroy Berry had come out of surgery over an hour before, and after a brief discussion with the lead surgeon, Rachel and Hiram had gone to be by his bedside. _

'_You're the last person that I expected to come with her,' Hiram's voice was rough from the emotion of the day, and Quinn glanced up in surprise, shuffling herself up to a sitting position. He was looking at her thoughtfully, his eyes red and puffy, and the expression on his face was somehow hard and raw all at once. _

'_I don't know why I'm surprised, really,' he said finally, more to himself than to her, 'some people just… gravitate, no matter how far life tries to take you away. I suppose that you and Rachel are like this… Leroy and I, too.' _

_Quinn watched him apprehensively. There had once been a time when she had loved Rachel's fathers like her own family, when she had been younger and naïve. Nowadays she trusted almost no one; she had learnt that lesson well. _

'_I meant to say it a long time ago, Quinn,' he started, looking out of the window at the evening sky that he did not see,' Leroy and I… we thought of you, spoke of you sometimes… I mean… I meant to tell you, Quinn, but I never had the chance, neither of us did.'_

_Quinn stiffened, wrapping her arms around herself as she glanced towards the door. This conversation was making her feel awkward, especially knowing that Rachel with all her curiosity was nearby, that she could overhear any of it. _

'_It's in the past,' she stated, hoping that he would just drop it. But Hiram just shook his head, his expression serious. _

'_What we did was wrong,' he said gently, 'what we said to you that day.'_

_Quinn's jaw clenched and she met his eyes as he sat down on the edge of the hospital chair next to her. _

'_Apologising for it now doesn't change what you said,' she replied flatly, 'nothing that we say can ever change our past actions, or our previous choices. I'm not going to listen to you and soothe your conscience for that.'_

_He evaluated her silently for a moment, measuring her. _

'_You've grown up a lot,' he said finally, pursing his lips, 'from the girl I knew.' _

'_I had to grow up,' she stated._

_He looked down at his hands, twisted the wedding band on his ring finger. _

'_Yes,' he said softly, 'I suppose you did.'_

_She followed his gaze and sighed, an awful twisting in her gut as she let herself feel a little of the pain that still swamped her when she thought back. It had been a long time since she had let herself indulge in swimming through the mess of emotions that was the past. Her psychotherapist had a psycho-babble word for it. Something about coping mechanisms, dangerous ones. But Quinn thought of it as functioning, because she knew that if she spent too much time in meandering through the ugly thoughts and feelings of the last few years she was likely to drown in them. _

'_For what it's worth, I actually think that you were right,' she said finally, 'you were right to try and protect her. Had I not pushed her away, she would never have gone to NYADA that year. I would have ruined everything that she had worked so hard for. I wouldn't have been able to live with that… all you did was tell me it straight. Black and white.'_

_Hiram continued to twist his wedding band on his finger, lost in his own thoughts about the choice that he and Leroy had made, their protective manipulation of their daughter and her relationship. _

'_We thought that we were doing the right thing for her…'_

'_I know,' Quinn hoped that he would just stop talking to her._

'_We never really considered that Rachel's choice may be the right choice,' he finished finally, 'we never considered that maybe love at that age is just as valid as at any other age… that loss can be just as damaging. I thought it would be like… like ripping off a bandaid. That it would hurt but then she would forget about you after a couple of months of being in New York, she would get caught up in the excitement of her life and put Lima behind her.'_

_Quinn stayed silent. They were already wading deep into the murky waters of nostalgia and regret, and it was a vulnerability she could not afford._

'_I'm trying to tell you that she didn't, Quinn,' Hiram said. 'I'm telling you that I was wrong, we were wrong to tell you that you were going to ruin her… to ruin her life. We were wrong to manipulate you like that.'_

'_And I'm telling you that it is in the past,' she replied equally firmly, 'nothing can change it now.'_

_Hiram cocked his head to the side, in that familiar way that Rachel did. Quinn ignored him resolutely. _

'_And yet you're here,' he pointed out. _

_Quinn shook her head, sending him a disdainful look that she could not help. In truth she had never really forgiven him for coming to her when she was in her hospital bed only days after her family had died. Rationally she knew that he had been trying to protect his daughter and her future. Rationally she knew that. But she had never forgiven him, and probably never would._

'_I'm here because I love her,' she replied frankly, 'Look, Hiram… I can count the people that I care about in this world on one hand. The few people who actually mean something to me, that I would give my life for. You should know by now that your daughter is right at the top of that list… and she always will be.'_

_She stood up abruptly, stretching her cramped limbs. The walls were closing in on her and she felt as though too much had been said already. _

'_I need a walk,' she said needlessly as she stepped towards the door, 'I'll grab you a skinny latte from the Starbucks down the road.'_

'_Leroy… he always wanted to apologise to you, he always felt guilty about what we said,' he replied softly, still struck by the end of their conversation. And Quinn heard that note of sadness in his voice, the nostalgia and regret. 'Thank you for never telling her.' _

'_What would it achieve?' She asked quietly, reaching for the handle of the door, 'it would only hurt her. And I have done enough of that already.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

Quinn woke to the smell of coffee, her back aching from another night sleeping on a couch and her eyes sore and gritty. She had the strange sensation of someone watching her, and sure enough, when she opened her eyes a blurry vision of Santana in one of her powersuits was looking down at her with a serious expression on her face. It was more than a little scary.

'Move up,' the latina instructed, and in her sleepy way, Quinn pushed herself up a little straighter, folding her legs underneath her so that Santana had enough space to sit down. She held a mug of coffee in her hands, and looked down into it for a thoughtful moment before speaking.

'What the hell is going on?'

Just by the question, Quinn realised that she wanted to be more awake for this conversation and was at a distinct disadvantage. The hazy fog of the last few days threatened at the edges, and she tried to supress it. The turmoil of emotions was almost too much to bear.

'And don't give me any of your bullshit, Quinn,' her best friend said quietly, 'you have been gone for the last five days, and then you turn up here in the middle of the night, a complete mess...'

'I'm sorry…'

'No, _don't_ be sorry, don't be fucking sorry, just tell me what is going on.'

Quinn looked at her sharply, wondering what exactly had tipped the Latina off. Maybe it was simply the years that they had known each other, the years that had brought them closer than sisters. And yet there was still so many secrets between them, so many things that she had wished she could have told her but had been too afraid to.

'Letitia Lennox was here?' she asked finally.

'Yes,' Santana responded, her words clipped with frustration, 'last night. She got the address from my mother apparently, as your next of kin when you were at Harvard.'

'That was sneaky of her,' Quinn commented.

'You visited her in Harvard on Friday.'

Quinn nodded. She had visited the cardiothoracic surgeon who had been her mentor during her time in Boston, but the meeting had not gone well. Letitia was a power-hungry bitch as far as Quinn was concerned, one that she both admired and despised. To get to the top of any profession as a woman took a certain amount of ruthlessness, particularly in something as male-dominated as cardiothoracics.

'We argued,' she elaborated.

'So she said last night.'

'She wants me to come back from Cambodia. She thinks that I am wasting my life.'

In fact, the cardiothoracic surgeon's words had been much harsher than that. And as Quinn had stormed from the room she had heard a glass shatter against the door behind her. Letitia had always had a quick temper.

'And then where did you go?' Santana pressed, her dark eyes intent. Quinn felt a pang of sympathy for anyone who had every been cross-examined by her. 'You left Boston on Friday and turned off your phone. Where have you been for four days?'

Quinn steeled herself to look up at her friend. The truth was too convoluted and the ache within her was only intensifying.

'I can't tell you,' she finally replied.

'Why not?' Santana's grip on her mug was tightening. Maybe it was intuition, or maybe it was something else, but she could feel the dark edge to whatever Quinn was hiding and it was frightening her; whatever had caused Quinn to break down in her arms the night before was frightening her.

'Because I don't want to lie to you,' Quinn replied. She leant forward towards her friend but the Latina brushed her off. 'I don't lie to you, San. You know that. But there are things… Some things that I can't tell you. I just can't, San.'

* * *

><p><strong>Lima 2018. <strong>

_It was when the night was at its deepest point that Rachel padded softly through the door that connected the two hotel rooms. It was meant for families, she knew, not as some kind of portal that took you back to the beds of your ex-lovers. And yet there she was, spread out across the bed, golden hair messily about her head, frowning in her sleep. Rachel felt a tug of nostalgia once again, the desire to cross the distance and time and go back to that point when everything was simple. _

_Her father lay in the intensive care unit tonight, intubated and ventilated, a million infusions running into the line in his neck, a million monitors and alarms and a nurse watching his every breath. He wouldn't open his eyes until the sedation was off, that is what they had told her. _This kind of operation is very high risk, we won't know the outcome until we try to wake him up. _Rachel had looked between the surgeon's serious eyes and the expression on Quinn's face. Neither had given much away. But tonight, the thought of going back to her house without her Daddy had been far too painful to bear, and as Quinn had insisted on staying in the nearest hotel to the hospital anyway they had booked in together_.

_She paused just inside the door, suddenly aware of what she was doing, of how she was violating the other woman's privacy. The last time they had seen each other had been when baby Carlos had been born, and prior to that it had been that day that Quinn had broken down on campus in Harvard. The lilies kept coming though. Beautiful, pink and yellow stargazer lilies, and it was through them that Rachel felt the steely wires of her connection with Quinn would never fade. Somewhere behind those eyes was the girl that she had loved, and she feared that she would never be able to love so intensely or so completely again. Of course she had had lovers, though the years they had come and gone, but no one had really stayed. Or maybe, more accurately, Rachel had never allowed them to. For the comparison was always too great, not of the people, but of her reaction to them. She had given herself, and was still giving herself, to the blonde asleep on the bed before her, the woman who was somehow a mystery to her. _

'_Are you ok?' the sleepy voice came from the bed, and in the vague half-light she could make out Quinn turning towards her. _

_Rachel felt her heart start to pound in her chest, suddenly caught in her musings. _

'_No,' she whispered into the dark. There was something about the hours of the early morning that allowed you to be honest, with yourself, with others. Honest in a way that you could never be in the daylight. _

_For once, Quinn had no words to ask the question that she wanted to. Rubbing at her eyes, she pushed herself up in the bed, charting the curve of Rachel's body with her eyes. _

'_I want to know why,' Rachel said softly, stepping not towards the bed but towards the window. Reaching out with one pale hand to open the curtains just a little to let the pale moonlight bathe her in its ghostly glow. _

'_Why what?' Quinn echoed. _

'_Why everything,' she whispered, the delicate words tripping from her lips, 'why him? Why did it have to happen to him?'_

_Quinn swallowed at the fear that she could hear in the brunette's voice, a fear that she recognised as her own. The fear that he would never wake up, that Rachel would lose her father forever. And she would be damaged forever by the loss, as everyone is damaged by loss, by the grief. _

'_I don't know, Rach,' she murmured. _

'_No?' the brunette turned back to her, the glow of the light silhouetting her, and Quinn felt a surge of emotion cut through her, somewhere between admiration and desire. Rachel Berry had been the first. The only, for her. She could not imagine entangling herself emotionally with anyone else. And years ago, when Maribel Lopez had advised her in soft tones to find something, anything good in this world to hold onto and help her through the darkness, of course it had been Rachel first and foremost in her mind. Not the image of her as such, but the belief in her. The memory of the spontaneous way in which she would laugh, her expressions as open as Quinn's were closed. Or the soft way that she would hum when she was concentrating, harmonising subconsciously with the background music. The softest patch of skin, just over her temple. The frustration she always had when trying to style that lock of hair that always wanted to move in the opposite direction. A million nuances kept alive in her memory. A million nuances that Quinn had tried to piece back together into the figure she saw before her now, no longer the girl that she had known but a woman._

'_Well there are some of my whys that you can answer,' there was an edge to Rachel's tone now and the hair rose across Quinn's skin. 'Why did you do it?'_

'_I'm not sure what you're talking about…'_

'_Why did you push me away?' It was the question that she had never managed to ask directly. And in the heavy dark she could hear Quinn's breath catch, the blonde looking away. _

'_No, don't you dare,' Rachel said firmly, 'you look at me when you answer this question, Quinn.'_

_And she could make out the stillness of the figure on the bed, but the blonde didn't answer, she didn't even seem to be breathing._

'_Why did you push me away after the fire?' she repeated the question, the same question that had run through her mind so many times in the weeks and months after she had gone to New York, looking out into the exciting new city and not seeing it, lost and aching for the blonde. She felt a surge of sudden, irrational anger. An anger she had never been able to express. 'I was by your bedside until you woke up. I was beside you the whole time, Quinn. And when we told you, when you found out what had happened to your sister, and your parents, you clung to me. You cried in my arms until you fell asleep, and even then if I tried to move you just held on to me tighter. You made me promise never to leave you, do you remember that? You made me promise never to leave. And then, from one day to the next, you cut me out of your life.'_

_The anger was making her tremble, and on the bed Quinn was just as still as she had been before. _

'_You broke my heart, Quinn,' she whispered harshly, 'as stupid as it sounds, but you did. You shattered me. And I don't understand… I still don't understand you. Why did you do it? And why are you here now? Why do you send me these flowers but keep yourself so far away? Why do you keep doing this? To me? To yourself?'_

_She could feel Quinn's eyes on her, the heat of being under her gaze, but her face was in the shadows. She hadn't realised how heavy it had been to hold this inside of her._

'_We do stupid things when we are afraid,' the blonde's voice was a whisper that Rachel had to strain to hear. 'I was trying to protect you…'_

'_I didn't need protecting,' Rachel objected. _

'_You don't understand,' Quinn's voice cracked and the angry retort died on Rachel's lips as she realised that the blonde was also crying, silent tears of frustration, of hopelessness. 'You were the purest, most wonderful thing in my life, Rach. You were the only thing that I had left… and I was broken. I was ruined… I couldn't bear to ruin your life too.'_

_Rachel wrapped her arms around herself, the anger seeping out of her at Quinn's words. At the sadness of it. _

'_Staying with you would never have ruined me,' Rachel said quietly. 'I wanted to be there.'_

'_You would never have gone to NYADA,' came the soft reply, and Rachel felt a strange finality. She had never really considered that before. Her whole life had been geared towards NYADA, from the day that she had been able to walk, and it had always been so intertwined with her future that she could not imagine a life without her going there. And as strongly as she had yearned for it, she also knew that she would have given it up without a second thought, in those days following the fire. It was no secret that NYADA did not take deferred entries._

'_Maybe not,' she said quietly, stepping forward to sit on the edge of Quinn's bed, the warmth of her presence close and yet far. 'But it would have been my choice.'_

'_I loved you too much to let you give that up for me,' Quinn said. 'And I was afraid… afraid that with all the darkness inside me, that I would ruin us too. I lost myself, Rachel. I lost who I was.'_

_Rachel's eyes focused down on the bedspread, listening to the sound of their breathing, shallow and quiet in the middle of the night. She had waited so long for that explanation, but now that she had it she felt deflated by thoughts of what was, against what might have been. The years that had passed seemed heavy. _

'_And what now?' she asked, her voice low. _

'_Now?' the blonde echoed. _

'_Now,' Rachel repeated, realising that she was closer to Quinn than she had thought she was, leaning forwards so that their eyes were level. It felt surreal to raise her hand in the darkness, to caress the alabaster cheek, feeling the damp of the tears that had tracked down them. Quinn let her. 'How long are we going to do this? How long are we going to wait? I see the way that you look at me, Quinn…'_

'_I'm not the person that you think I am,' Quinn whispered, catching Rachel's wrist in her fingers, her heart thudding in her chest. _

_And instead of stopping, Rachel just moved closer, breathing in the sweet scent of the blonde's shampoo. It felt strangely like she was coming home, back to the place that she was meant to be. _

'_Then let me get to know you again,' she replied, and beneath the steely control, she could feel Quinn start to tremble._

'_Things have happened,' the blonde whispered, 'things that I can never forgive myself for.'_

_And they were close enough in the darkness that Rachel could see into those wide eyes, much darker than in the daylight. And she wanted nothing more than to press herself against Quinn, as they had done as teenagers, hold each other through the night and forget the world outside, forget about the future and the past and everything in between. She yearned for the warmth of those arms around her, the steady rise and fall of Quinn's breathing as she slept. _

'_Just hold me tonight,' Rachel said softly, 'just hold me like you used to. Just for tonight. And tomorrow… tomorrow is a new day, Quinn.'_

_The blonde had no more words, she just pulled the bedcovers aside for Rachel to climb in beside her. And it was with a strange familiarity that Rachel took the soft hand and guided it over her, feeling the warmth of Quinn's body at her back, the warmth of her breath on the nape of her neck. It felt like a dream, one that she had had many nights before. And the question that had at the forefront of her mind was the one that she could never find an answer for. _

_Why am I still in love with you, after all these years. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chicago. 2016. <strong>

_The cold of the concrete wall was seeping through her jacket, but Quinn could barely feel it. She felt numb. Disconnected. Far away._

_Across the room the middle-aged man was handcuffed to a chair, a blindfold knotted tightly across his eyes._

_Quinn watched him intently. Burning his every feature into her memory. The slightly crooked set of his nose, one that had clearly been broken before. The old scar across his shaven head. Thick arms with muscle as solid as the bodybuilders she sometimes saw in the campus gym. The metal of the handcuffs cut into his wrists, and blood had dried to a flaky brown on his hands. Hands that Michael had assured her had the blood of her sister on them as well, and that of her mother, and of Russell Fabray. _

I have him. Just as I promised you that I would.

_Between them there was a small table, one leg a fraction shorter than the others. And on the table, where Michael had left it, a handgun waited. Quinn had made no move to take it, not yet. There was something terrifying about how calm she felt, the steadiness of her heartbeat. If she wanted to, she felt that reaching out to take the gun would be the most natural thing in the world, that pressing it against the back of his head and squeezing the trigger would be easy. She had never felt such hatred for anyone. Never before. And the iciness of it went straight to her core. _

_The dried blood from his nose, that had spread across his shirt… she wished it looked real, but beneath the single fluorescent light everything felt abstracted. Her fingers twitched. She had dreamt this moment so many times before._

_The time passed, and Quinn waited. Knowing that either way, in its timeless way, this was going to be the end of part of her. _

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Please review.<strong>


	14. Difficult Decisions

AN: thank you to anyone who is still reading this - your support and comments are very much appreciated. Sorry that it takes so long to update - there are not enough hours in the day.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 14 - Decisions<span>

**Chicago. 2016.**

'_What are you waiting for?' _

_Michael was becoming impatient. He stood in the concrete doorway, his presence impressive despite neither being tall nor wide. Had she not known who he was to her, Quinn knew that she would have been afraid of him. There was always something tense and awkward between them that she could never quite overcome. _

_But her eyes remained focused on the man before her. She felt cold; balanced on the knife edge. Action; inaction. Right; wrong. The coin flipped again and again in her mind, and whichever way it would fall she could not bring herself to move. _

_The gun still between them. _

_She wanted him dead; she knew that as intensely as she had known anything in her life. _

'_My sister was at university,' she said finally, speaking to Michael but watching the man in the centre of the room. The sweat was blooming across his skin. 'She was studying to be a designer.'_

_She pushed herself off the wall, her battered converse squeaking on the bare floor as she stepped towards the table. It was the pointless memories that seemed to be dominating in her mind as she tried to focus. The silly things, like baking with her mother when she had been a child, spilling the flour across the counter. Or those summer days that Franny had taught her how to perform handstands in the back garden. The little things. The silly things that seemed more important than anything else now. Her fingers ghosted over the cool metal of the gun. It taunted her. _

'_Just do it, Quinn,' Michael folded his arms across his chest, watching her closely. 'It is easier not to think about it too much.'_

'_She had a fiancé,' she said quietly, 'that's why she was home. She came back to tell me.'_

_She picked it up, the weight of it strangely familiar in her hand. It was no secret that Russell Fabray had taught his girls to shoot. In fact, Quinn had held a gun for the first time at the age of five, found in the supposedly locked top drawers of her father's desk; it was an incident that was memorable not for the gun itself but for the punishment she had received from her panicked mother on discovering her curious kindergartener holding a Glock. There had been hell to pay for all members of the Fabray household that day. But by the time that Quinn had turned ten, Judy had relented and allowed her youngest to go with Franny and her father to learn at the shooting range occasionally, always watching her go with the greatest reluctance. She had always been more protective of Quinn than of Franny, more weary of her fearlessness, more determined to enforce the boundaries._

'_But she's dead,' Quinn said, mostly to herself, looking at the gun in her hand, 'they all are.'_

_Murdered because of Russell Fabray's connections; because of his association with Michael, the dangerous Chicagoan who had covered up the Fabray murders in order to exact justice himself. Uncle Mike. Her biological father._

'_End this, Quinn,' he instructed quietly. And she felt indecision freeze her yet again. Whilst everything was urging her to step forward, to complete what had been started, somehow she could not. And maybe that was the hardest realisation to come to terms with._

'_I can't,' she said finally. _

'_Can't?' Michael echoed, his tone hard, 'or won't?' _

_She flexed her finger gently against the trigger, tightening her grip on the handgun. A deep and nauseating sadness flooding her. Her mother had held her close that evening, the evening after the Glock incident when she was five, cuddling her tightly, riddled with the fear of losing her child. _

'_Won't,' she asserted, holding out the handgun to him. 'It won't make things right.'_

_She felt more certain of herself with every second. That small ember of humanity that she had retained was finally starting to spread its warmth through her frozen body._

_Mike made no move to take it, watching her with an expression that she could not read. It may be impatience, or irritation, she wasn't sure, but more than ever she realised that he was an unpredictable man, one that she should be wary of. _

'_It won't make things better,' she stated flatly. 'Not for me.'_

_And when his eyes narrowed at her a little, she understood him a little more. Understood that it wasn't necessarily about pulling the trigger, as much as it was about obeying him, twisting her into becoming part of his family. Despite their obviously shared DNA, she had practically refused to acknowledge him as her father. Refused to visit Chicago. Refused his money, refused his help._

'_He killed your family, Quinn,' he reminded her firmly. _

'_So you say,' she replied, trying not to be intimidated by him. _

_He raised a dangerous eyebrow. _

'_Do you doubt me?' He asked. Quinn swallowed. She had no evidence that she should trust anything that he said. The fact that he was her father did nothing to make her trust him. _

'_My mother,' she said hoarsely, 'my sister… they would not want me to do this.'_

_His jaw tensed. _

'_I'm telling you to shoot him.' _

_Quinn met his eyes. Took an unsteady breath. _

'_And I'm telling you that I won't.'_

_He took the weapon from her then, practically snatched it from her hand. No one spoke to him like that, nobody dared. But Quinn's certainty was growing; she was starting to be able to breathe again. She took in his anger, the bristling of his violence… and turned away from him. She was two steps towards the door when his voice boomed._

'_Quinn!'_

_She half-turned, looking up just as he pulled the trigger, the mess of blood and bone splattering across the room. The man fell forward in the chair like a puppet with its strings cut, jerking violently, and Quinn was frozen with the shock of it, staring at Michael who looked dispassionately down. The blood drained from her face, her vision sharpening in the surreal way that such rushes of adrenaline produce. She could barely catch her breath._

_The noise of it was still ringing in her ears. _

'_Don't ever turn your back on me,' he warned her darkly, as though he hadn't just executed a man. She felt the rise of nausea, of panic and fear and all the terrible dirty emotions that she hated so much. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her face ashen taking in the violent blood spatter on the floor and wall. As she inhaled shallowly, she met his eyes once more, seeing him truly for what he was – a dark and ugly reflection of herself. _

'_I never want to see or speak to you again,' she whispered when she finally found words. Her mouth was as dry as ash. 'I never want to see you. Or speak to you. Ever... Never again.'_

_And she ran from the room, pushing through doors, passed the scarred man who hovered in the corridor, until she was outside again in the icy cold of the Chicago night. The rain had stopped, but the ground remained wet, the puddles pooling on the ground. She braced herself against the wall as she emptied the contents of her stomach to the asphalt, trembling violently._

_When the retching finally stopped, she glanced up to find the scarred man watching her as he sucked on a cigarette. She met his eyes before spitting again onto the ground. _

'_He's a fucking psychopath,' she spat. The scarred man snorted._

'_He's a Chicago boss,' he replied shortly, 'he didn't get to that position by being a good man…' _

_Quinn wiped at her streaming eyes with the back of her hand. She looked up into the clear night, the crisp cold of it already biting through her._

'…_there is a reason why Judy chose Russell all those years ago.'_

_Quinn looked at him sharply. More than ever, she felt the haunting of presence of her mother at her back, both reprimanding and comforting her. Their relationship had always been complicated. _

'_You knew my mother?' she asked with surprise. He exhaled slowly, the smoke dancing up. _

'_You have her grace. Your eyes are Mickey's, but the way you hold yourself, your mannerisms… you are Judy's daughter. That is clear.'_

_She closed her eyes for a moment, and in that second saw the devastation of the bullet again. The blood spray. The bone. She had wanted him dead, but the reality was sickening. She couldn't reconcile the two facts in her mind._

'_She wouldn't be pleased with me, if she were here now,' Quinn said softly, mostly to herself. _

_The man shrugged a careless shoulder._

'_She would understand,' he replied, his slate grey eyes steady. Quinn's gaze dropped to the ground, to the vomit that mixed with the rainwater, the flecks on blood on the toe of her shoe. _

'_Would she?'_

_He didn't answer her; just let the question hang in the night between them, a finger absently trailing across the scar on his cheek. _

'_I'll give you some advice, Quinn,' he said finally, 'for your mother.' _

_The girl didn't look up at him as he spoke, but just from the stillness of her he knew that she was listening. _

'_She tried to protect you from Mickey, from this world,' he stated simply, 'because she understood how the poison spread. The minute that you are associated with Mickey… the minute that anyone knows that he is your father… you will be a target. And you will be a target for the rest of your life. Your anonymity is your only security, Quinn. Your mother gave you that.'_

_The silent tears that were streaming from the corners of her eyes were hidden in the shadows, and Quinn felt the strength drain from her frame. Never before in her life had she felt so alone, so weak and hollow. She felt a fleeting flash of memory, that same image of herself as a child curled up in the warmth of her mother's arms. There had been a time when her mother could protect her from anything… but now the darker forces of the world were circling her, and as lost and scared as she was, Quinn knew that she would have to find a strength to survive this. Alone. _

'_The police…' she murmured, the image of the murder still fresh in her mind. _

'_Are corrupt,' he answered. 'No one will make a move against Mickey Quinn, not in this town.'_

_At the name, Quinn looked up at him, her face ashen. _

'_Mickey Quinn?' she echoed._

_He flicked his cigarette to the ground. _

'_You didn't know?' he asked with a hint of surprise. And part of her wanted to laugh. Really wanted to laugh at the horror of it all. Of the irony. No wonder her parents had opposed her so fiercely when she had adopted her middle name. But it had felt so right, even as a child, to be called Quinn. Lucy Quinn Fabray. _

'_I never want to see him again,' she said finally, trying to control the shaking of her hands, 'never.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

'Can we play on our bikes?'

Carlos was practically bouncing with energy as he hovered in the doorway of the bathroom, watching her apply her make up.

'Not today.'

'Can we go to the water park?'

'No.'

'The ice rink?'

'No.'

'A museum?'

At that suggestion, Quinn turned to him, an eyebrow raised.

'A _museum? _Seriously?' she echoed, before laughing as she reached out to ruffle his hair affectionately, 'you have got to be the only seven year-old kid in the world who volunteers to go to a museum.'

'I liked the one with the dinosaurs,' he objected, a little put out by her comment. 'Can we go?'

She couldn't help but smile as she turned back to her reflection. At least Carlos' energy was distracting her thoughts away from the darkness of the last few days.

'No,' she replied firmly.

'Why _not?_' he couldn't keep the whiny tone from his voice and she couldn't help but take pity on him.

'Three very good reasons,' she stated, looking down to meet his eyes before counting them off on her fingers, 'firstly, you are suspended from school which means that we cannot be doing fun things. Secondly, your mothers have grounded you for fighting again, and so _we cannot be doing fun things_...'

'It's so unfair,' he interrupted, a mutinous expression on his face.

'Unfair?' she repeated.

'Unfair! I was helping my friend,' he stated, a scowl on his face. 'It shouldn't be wrong to help a friend.'

Quinn set down her eyeliner thoughtfully, looking at him for a long moment before perching on the edge of the bathtub.

'Come here, tiger,' she instructed gently. He glared at her again and she rolled her eyes. 'Come _here_...'

Reluctantly he stepped forward.

'I _know_ your Momma and Mami have spoken to you about this,' she said, 'do you remember what they said?'

Carlos shook his head stubbornly and he looked so much like Santana that Quinn had to stop herself from softening. She pulled him closer, raising his chin so that their eyes were level.

'You are not being punished for helping your friend, you are being punished for fighting,' she told him gently, 'it is different. There are people in this world, Carlos, who use violence and fear to get what they want. People are afraid of them because they are bullies… they are not nice people. When you grow up and become a man, you will have a choice about the kind of man that you will be. Your mammas have raised you to be brave, and confident, and to stand up for what you believe, as you do now… but they don't want your first reaction to be violence or fighting. There are better ways, tiger. Do you see what I mean?'

The boy chewed on the side of his cheek, watching her.

'I guess,' he replied finally.

'You _guess?_'

'I still don't want to be grounded,' he asserted and Quinn laughed in response.

'You are lucky that's all you got, kiddo,' she replied with a smirk, standing again to finish her make up in the mirror, 'when your Mami was little and got in trouble for fighting, Mamma Lopez would whip her butt.'

The boy's eyes widened, 'she would?'

'Sometimes,' Quinn replied with a shrug. Admittedly, most of the times that Santana had been in trouble for fighting, little Lucy Fabray had either been her fierce opponent or loyally at her side...

'Did it stop her fighting?'

_No_. Quinn bit her lip. It had taken a long time for Santana to curb her own temper, and that had been more to do with Brittany than anyone else. Quinn tried, instead, a different approach. 'Your Mami grew up to be brave enough to stand up for what is right, for what she believes in. That's why she became a lawyer, Carlos. So that she could use words and justice rather than violence.'

The truth was that the ideals that you try to instil in childhood cannot be translated to reality. It was all a lie, Quinn realised, a lie that they all wanted to believe. That the world could work without violence and that people could stand up for what they believed in.

'What's the third reason that we can't have fun today?' Carlos asked, apparently satisfied with her explanation. She added the final strokes of her mascara.

'I have to attend a charity gala tonight with Jasper,' she replied, 'so we need to go dress shopping.'

And the pained groan that he let out confirmed for her that this was more of a punishment than being either grounded or suspended could ever be.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

Santana waited impatiently in her booth at the diner, tapping her manicured nails against the edge of the table. Whatever sixth sense she had was firing on overdrive at the moment and she wasn't entirely certain why but it was driving her crazy.

'Tense much?' Ben asked as he slipped in opposite her, setting down his plate stacked high with pancakes and syrup.

'How can you eat that crap in the morning?' she asked irritably.

'I like it,' he smirked, stabbing a pancake with his fork, 'what got you in such a shitty mood, Lopez?'

She glared at him. In truth, it was a number of things, but mainly today it was Quinn, for disappearing for four days and then lying to her face about it. It made her angry, and it made her scared… but she wasn't quite sure why.

'I had to lecture my son this week on what is right and wrong in the world. About standing up for yourself. About bullies. And violence. And then I have to come in to work to defend a man who has tortured and murdered people without hesitation…'

'You think he's guilty?' Ben raised an eyebrow.

'We both _know_ he's guilty,' Santana hissed back. 'He has done everything he is accused of and more.'

The investigator smirked again, continuing to chew on his breakfast.

'You are probably right,' he agreed, 'but how hard do you think it is to find anyone in this city who will sit on the witness stand or in a jury to prosecute a henchman of the five families?'

'This isn't the nineteen-thirties any more, Ben… people shouldn't be afraid of Lucky Luciano or Al Capone…' Santana stated.

'Al Capone was Chicago,' Ben interjected.

'Whatever,' Santana snapped. 'It is not right that he could get away with murder.'

'But it is your job to make sure that he does,' Ben replied pointedly, and she sank back into the booth in defeat. He was right, of course. It was her job, pure and simple.

'Why did you want to meet here?' she asked finally.

'I didn't want to raise suspicions,' he replied carefully, 'at the office, I mean.'

She raised an eyebrow, surprised.

'You found something already?'

'That is why I am the best at what I do, Santana,' he replied, a cocky look in his eyes. 'I looked into victim number 4 – and there is nothing there. The ambulance records give limited detail and I tracked down the crew yesterday... they remember nothing useful.'

Santana cocked her head, waiting for him to go on.

'Victim number ten, however, is a different story.'

'The young guy in Queens?'

'That's right. I went through the security camera footage from the hospital…' he let a smile twist his lips, keeping his voice low, 'and the police have really fucked up on this one.'

Santana felt her heart start to beat harder in her chest.

'Go on.'

'There is nothing of interest on the night that he died,' Ben stated, sipping at his coffee, 'but a week before, at the same time you can clearly see him being thrown out of a car at the ER ambulance entrance, bloodied and battered… it is unmistakable.'

'Mislabelled tapes?' Santana asked, leaning forward, 'it comes down to fucking _mislabelled tapes_?'

'Well… digital recordings. But yes. Mislabelled security footage. And it gets better, San,' he smiled, taking pleasure in watching her reaction as he imparted the next piece of news, 'Joe Waters enter the ER not ten minutes later that same night. And he doesn't come back out.'

Santana ground her teeth.

'You're sure it is him?' she asked.

He nodded. 'I'm sure.'

She let out a tense breath, a look of confusion on her face. 'But why would he go into the ER after the victim was already fatally wounded?'

'Maybe to make sure that he had finished the job?' Ben suggested. The chill ran up her spine again.

'Don't tell anyone about this,' she instructed quietly, pushing her coffee away. It tasted too bitter now. 'It could implicate our client.'

Ben shrugged.

'I know.'

She rolled her shoulders, sliding out of the booth to stand as she put a couple of bills on the table. 'I need to see it for myself…'

He grinned that Cheshire cat grin of his as she turned to walk away.

'There is a tonne of red tape to skirt round to get it… but I can probably get my hands on a copy by Friday.'

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

Hours of shopping had sent Carlos out of his mind and by the time that they had reached Quinn's hotel room she was going out of her mind too. For a start she had to get ready for the gala and what she didn't need was a curious seven year old opening and closing all of her draws and rummaging around the closet. After a few minutes she had lost most of her patience.

'Carlos,' she took him by his narrow shoulders, directing him to the couch, 'Carlos. Sit.'

He did as she instructed and she let out a breath. It was one of those moments when she wondered fleetingly whether, in a different life, she would have ever managed to be a good mother. She doubted that she would have been patient enough.

'Now just… watch some TV or something,' she told him, passing him the remote as she went back to the closet to arrange the dress and shoes that she had bought for the evening.

'I can't,' he replied forlornly.

'Hmmm?'

'I'm grounded,' he reminded her, before starting to count off on his fingers the way that his mother had done, 'grounded means no TV, no video games, no computer…'

'Okay, okay, I get it,' Quinn cut him off. 'Just… sit there, quietly. Your Momma will be here to pick you up soon, okay?'

Those dark eyes looked at her from across the room.

'Are you fed up with me, Auntie Quinn?' He asked in a small voice and she let out a breath, stepping back across the room to plant a kiss on the top of his head.

'Of course not, tiger,' she ruffled his hair, 'that will never happen. It's just that tonight is a big deal for Jasper, and I want to look perfect… which, is quite _stressful_ for a girl…'

'Really?' he looked a bit perplexed at the idea and she waved him off.

'You'll understand when you grow up,' she stated.

And as she rustled around behind him he started to flip through the magazines on the coffee table. Stacking up the loose change in towers and then knocking them down, until the small dark blue booklet amongst the documents caught his eye. He reached for it, glancing back at his aunt as she dashed into the bathroom. Carlos ran his finger over the golden embossed seal, faded with time, the eagle, the olive branch, the fist of arrows… He opened it carefully, the edges soft, and flipped through the pages one by one, entranced by the ink stamps of different designs that were printed there.

He was so engrossed that when she plucked it from his fingertips he was surprised.

'Is that your passport?' he asked curiously, watching her place it carefully into one of the drawers.

'Yes,' Quinn replied, glancing at her watch, 'and it is not for playing around with, understood?'

He nodded quickly, looking back to the towers of change he had been building. But his curiosity was piqued, not so much by the passport itself but by what the strange lady who had come to his house the night before had said about the passport. About _Auntie Quinn's_ passport.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2019.<strong>

'_So,' Brittany whispered as she settled down again on the couch after getting the baby back off to sleep, 'are you going to tell me what the hell is going on between you and Q or are you going to keep me in suspense?'_

_Rachel couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips in surprise. _

'_That was pretty direct,' she commented as Brittany picked up a pretzel from the bowl on the table._

'_If I'm not direct with you, Rach, I never get to the answer,' the blonde responded, 'you use almost every word in the dictionary to not answer the question…'_

'_It's not a crime to be verbose…'_

'_You're doing it again,' Brittany cut her off. _

'_Sorry.' Rachel took a long sip of her wine, swirling it around the glass, looking thoughtfully at the garnet liquid. 'The truth is… I don't really know what the answer is. Britt, I… I don't know.'_

_The blonde raised her eyebrows, studying the singer carefully, observing the curve of her features in the low lighting. Rachel shrugged under the scrutiny. Those blue eyes were eyes that she could never hide from, the truth emerged whether she wanted it to or not. It was a skill that Brittany had. _

'_I just… I don't want to push her, Britt,' Rachel started softly, trying to verbalise how she was feeling, 'When my father was ill last year, when he had his surgery, Quinn was… she was wonderful. I don't know what I would have done without her. We put a lot of issues to rest.'_

'_And afterwards?' Brittany probed gently. _

'_Afterwards… we decided to take it slowly.'_

_Brittany rolled her eyes with uncharacteristic exasperation. _

'_Slowly? Come on, Rachel,' she scoffed, 'she is meant to be working 24/7 as a resident but every time Quinn has a spare moment she is racing down to New York to be with you…'_

'_Which is part of the problem,' Rachel cut her off, 'her life is in Boston, my life is here…'_

'_And you don't want to push her?' Brittany echoed the phrase that Rachel had used earlier, her tone hardening at the edges. _

'_She has been through so much, Britt,' Rachel defended herself. _

'_But so have you,' Brittany pointed out. She shook her head to herself. 'Don't you think that sometimes Quinn just needs someone who is not trying to handle her with kid-gloves? She always admired your strength, Rachel, your confidence and certainty. If you want her back in your life then you need to tell her that. Tell it to her straight. She is made of tough stuff… she won't break. '_

_The brunette smoothed back her hair, taking in her friend's words. She had never really thought of Quinn as vulnerable, even though she clearly was treating her that way._

'_She's not the girl that I used to know,' Rachel said finally, her dark eyes meeting Brittany's, 'she is not the girl that I fell in love with when we were seventeen, but there are elements of that Quinn still, glinting like… like shards of glass, I'm not sure how to describe it. She has a darkness to her now, a depth… And when we make love, it is amazing. I feel like we're flying. But sometimes, afterwards, I watch her as she sleeps and it feels so… so devastatingly sad.'_

'_Sad?' Brittany asked quietly. _

'_I feel the years in between, Britt, and the emptiness of them echoes. She holds secrets there… I don't know how to explain it to you, but I can feel them, between us, like a heavy weight.'_

'_Can you love her?' Brittany asked gently, 'do you?'_

_And Rachel's gaze was on her hands for a moment, the stem of her wine glass. _

'_Of course I do,' she smiled through the tears that had started to well in her eyes, 'I always have. But it is different now, so different. I was never afraid before.'_

'_Afraid?' Brittany's brow furrowed in confusion. _

'_Of not being enough,' Rachel whispered, 'of not being enough for her.'_

_And at that Brittany reached across to take Rachel's hands in her own. _

'_Tell her,' she urged, squeezing her hands, 'you need to tell her what you want from her, if this is how you feel.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

There was a pause in the live entertainment from the stage somewhere between the main course and desert, and Quinn took the opportunity to turn to her date for the night. It felt surreal to be there with him amongst the glitz and the glamour. A _Charity_ Gala. She had mixed feelings about the concept, it was like a perfect satin finish to cover up the raw inequalities of the world, and something about the perfect smiles, the expensive wine… something about it all rankled her.

'I have to admit, Dr Fabray,' Jasper said with a smirk, 'you scrub up pretty well. Can I ask who…?'

'It's Marc Jacobs,' she replied, knowing what he was angling for and giving him an amused look. 'I had to buy everything today. I figured that you wouldn't be very impressed if I turned up in my rags from the Russian market.'

'You know that you look beautiful in anything,' he delivered the cheesy line and she rolled her eyes.

'Well it's all going back tomorrow,' she replied.

'You're not even tempted to keep it?'

'Do you really think that I have any use for a ball gown in Phnom Penh?' she asked him jokingly but instead of laughing, he held her gaze steadily, measuring her up.

'So you're really going back,' he said finally.

'Of course,' she replied, confused by his reaction. 'My flight is on Friday.'

When he didn't say anything, she reached out to touch his hand, only to have him shrug her off.

'Why is that a surprise, Jasp?'

He shook his head, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

'It shouldn't be. I know that it shouldn't be,' he replied, 'but I felt that you were back, you know? I felt like I just got you back…'

His expression tightened, eyes narrowing.

'But that is you, isn't it?' he said, the edge to his voice sharpening even though the words remained quiet, 'never thinking about anyone else. Never considering anyone. No one but Rachel, always _Rachel_. You didn't think about what it would do to me when you left… you just left, Quinn. You left without a word.'

He was hurting, and the quiet anger in his words struck her, every sharp syllable hitting its mark. And she wished that she could explain, that she could justify her decisions, but it was too late. Honesty like that had no place in their dialogue, not anymore.

'I'm sorry that I hurt you, Jasp,' she said instead. He snorted derisively, shaking his head again. 'It was never my intention to hurt anyone… but I seem to have a talent for it.'

He reached out for his wine glass, cradling the contents but not drinking it. Quinn glanced at their companions on the table; a couple of television celebrities, a producer and his wife, a trader and another couple that she hadn't quite figured out yet. All were occupied in conversation, and seemingly hadn't noticed the atmosphere go sour between the photographer and his blonde date.

'When I left the US… I just had to get away,' she said quietly, 'something happened… something happened and… it changed everything.'

'You cheated on Rachel,' Jasper supplied coldly. And it was the icy manner in which he said it that seemed to flick a switch within her. She turned her icy gaze on him.

'No,' she replied quietly, 'actually I _didn't_.'

The surprise on his face would have been funny in any other situation, but Quinn was beyond humour now. He had started to push her buttons and real irritation was simmering beneath the cool surface.

'Not that it is any of your business,' she said.

'You didn't?' He echoed.

She turned a withering glare on him.

'Do you really think that after everything that I went through with Rachel... everything that I _did_ to be with her… do you _really_ think I could have cheated on her?'

The question hovered between them, Jasper now confused, and Quinn angry.

'But you told her… you _told _her that you cheated on her,' he asserted.

'I could tell you that I'm the pope, Jasper… it doesn't make it true,' she replied, realising as she said it that she had already said too much. The wine, the fog of it, was clouding her judgement. And there were so many things that she shouldn't have said.

'Why would you do that?' he asked, truly perplexed, 'why would you hurt someone that you care so much about? Why would you _hurt her_ like that?'

_To protect her. _She bit down on the words, trying to control the sudden shaking of her hands._ To protect her from them… from me… _Instead of answering, Quinn stood up, surprising herself, and the others on the table as she started to walk away, the light blue ball gown gliding around her. She had said too much already, far too much.

She walked around the tables blindly, and at the door to the ballroom one of the waiters stopped her.

'The musical performance is about to start, Ma'am,' he smiled at her, and she forced herself to smile back.

'I hate musicals,' she said sweetly. And over the years that had become true. For everything reminded her of Rachel Berry, and what they had once had. Everything that she had destroyed, to keep the brunette safe. To keep her far, far away.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading, please review.<p> 


	15. Boiling Point

A/N: I'd like to put some warnings on this chapter – it is dark and has some violence in it.

A big thank you to everyone who has reviewed – this is purely for you, as I have managed to make some more time in the last few days to write because you have re-enthused me for it. We are slowly edging our way through the story and I'm sure some of you have ideas as to where this is going.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 15 – Boiling Point<span>

**Present. New York. **

The night was cold, more reminiscent of the winter just past than the spring, and it was with enthusiasm that Carlos helped his Momma build up the log fire in the wood-burning stove in their sitting room. He had begged and begged and begged for her to do it tonight. Only his Momma knew how to do it right; his Mami was too impatient and could never be bothered with it, but through winter it was one of his favourite things, he loved the warm and cosy feel of it.

'Do we need more?' he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet as his Momma sat cross legged in front of the open doors arranging the small logs.

'No, I think that just about does it, sweetheart,' she replied with a smile, reaching for the box of matches only to find them empty. She sighed, pushing herself up. 'I'm just going to go find some more matches. Do _not_ touch the stove.'

Carlos couldn't help but roll his eyes.

'It isn't even on, Momma,' he objected.

'Carlos.'

'I won't touch it.'

Thirty minutes later and they were both sitting on the floor around the coffee table, trying to put together an ancient puzzle that Brittany had rescued from the attic. As a child she had loved things like this, much to Santana's eternal disdain, and each time he was grounded Carlos seemed to manage to get through another couple of her collection as he was not allowed to do much else. It had been happening with disturbing frequency over the last six months, to the point that Brittany realised that she would have to find another activity to engage him in when he was grounded. Or he was going to have to be grounded less often.

'Is Auntie Quinn really leaving again?' he asked quietly after a thoughtful moment or two.

Brittany was surprised by the question, though she recognised the serious look on her son's face. The time had passed them by so quickly. Two weeks had melted away into nothing, and with a sharp pang, Brittany realised that she had wasted the time that they could have had together, so obsessed as she had been with the documentary, and with pushing Quinn away.

'Yes,' she answered simply.

Carlos placed the puzzle pieces that he was holding down onto the coffee table and folded his arms solemnly, subconsciously imitating his Mami at her most serious.

'I don't want her to go,' he stated simply, 'and neither does Mami. And neither does silly Jasper, or Auntie Rachel.'

Brittany raised an eyebrow at that statement, making a mental note to remember that her son was more observant than he sometimes looked.

'And neither did that scary woman from the other night,' Carlos continued plainly, referring, Brittany realised, to the formidable Dr Letitia Lennox. '_She_ said that Auntie Quinn _has_ to stay. _She_ said that Auntie Quinn is _ruining_ her life by living in Cambodia. Even if there are monkeys.'

'She did, did she?' Brittany asked, wondering whether Santana was aware that her conversation with the cardiothoracic surgeon was not as private as she had intended it to be.

'Yup,' Carlos nodded certainly, 'so _I think_ Auntie Quinn should stay.'

'You do, do you?' Brittany asked, a hint of amusement colouring her tone. Carlos nodded his head earnestly. 'And what do you think Auntie Quinn thinks about this?'

Carlos shrugged. 'You or Mami can tell her.'

'That's not quite how it works, sweetheart,' Brittany smiled gently at him.

'But _everyone_ agrees,' he objected, frowning at her in the fierce way that she knew signified the beginning of a storm. 'And if _everyone_ agrees, then she should stay.'

Instead of continuing with the conversation on the floor, Brittany took his smaller hand in hers and led them both to the couch, stretching his smaller body out along her own so that she could cuddle him as they spoke.

'I don't agree,' she said softly.

He looked at her with surprise, and a touch of betrayal.

'Why not?'

She smoothed back his dark curls from his face, marvelling at how beautiful her child was, and searched for the words to explain.

'Your aunt,' she started slowly, 'she has a gift. A really special gift… she can make people better when they are sick...'

'It's her _job_,' Carlos replied pointedly, 'she's a _doctor_. She is meant to make sick people better.'

Brittany raised her eyebrows at him again. 'You don't think that it is a special gift to be able to do that?'

He shrugged reluctantly. 'Maybe. But lots of people do it. There are lots of doctors.'

'Not in Cambodia, not at the moment,' Brittany replied, 'it is one of the poorest countries in the world, baby, so people don't have the money to get treated, or they have to walk for miles to find a hospital. The government doesn't have the money to set up a system for them to get better.'

'Can't they just… call someone?' he asked. 'Or an ambulance?'

'It doesn't work that way there, sweetheart,' she replied gently. 'If you get sick here, we can go to the doctors and get you some medicine to get better, right?'

He nodded hesitantly.

'But if you had a twin in a province in Cambodia who got sick, they may not be able to see a doctor or get any medicine…' she tried to explain.

'They wouldn't get better?' Carlos asked, looking at her with his wide eyes. She didn't answer him directly.

'Your aunt has an important job over there; being a doctor, running a hospital, teaching students,' Brittany said, 'she is helping them build a future. It is very important… and she hasn't completed what she needs to do there yet. Maybe someday in the future she will be ready to come back but…'

'_When_ in the future?' Carlos pressed.

Brittany smiled sadly at him, shrugging her shoulders. 'I don't know, baby… When they no longer need her... When she feels that she has finished what she started.'

He frowned stubbornly.

'But _we_ need her too,' he objected. He looked up at her with his big eyes and she tried not to melt. 'You're not going to tell her to stay, Momma?'

'No, baby,' Brittany smiled gently at him. 'Your Auntie Quinn is a grown up… she makes her own decisions. Momma and Mami can't tell her what to do.'

Well, actually, they could… but it was unlikely that Quinn would do anything but laugh in response. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, looking into the fire with an expression that Brittany couldn't quite place.

'If you won't tell her to stay, I can _make_ her stay,' he said stubbornly.

'Sweetheart,' Brittany started with a frown, 'haven't you heard a word that I have said?'

Her little boy looked up at her again.

'I'm allowed an opinion,' he stated solemnly, quoting one of Santana's favourite phrases. She used it whenever they disagreed about anything, had done since he was small. _You're allowed an opinion, Carlos, but it is your bedtime ergo you are going to bed. You're allowed an opinion, but Hersheys are not a breakfast cereal and so you are not going to eat them for breakfast._ Mostly it was Santana's way of saying that he was allowed an opinion, but that ultimately he would do what she told him to.

'You are,' Brittany agreed, kissing him on the forehead. 'But you can't make adults do what they don't want to…'

Carlos chewed on his lip, looking gravely at the fire. That wasn't quite what the scary lady had said to him the night before. The tingling was starting in his belly again, that same feeling that he had had earlier in the day, and a strange excitement was starting build, an excitement mixed with fear. But Carlos Lopez was no chicken. If no one else would do anything, then he knew what he needed to do.

'Ok, Momma,' he said pacifyingly, a small smile on his lips.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

It was in the low lighting of the after party that Rachel cornered him, quite literally dragging him back into the corner by his upper arm.

'Did you know that she would be here?' she hissed, dark eyes blazing and Kurt tried, without success, to shrug himself out of her grip. Rachel Berry was a lot stronger than he remembered her being.

'Rachel, let go,' he ordered, 'for Christsake… this is Armani.'

She squeezed his arm through the material before letting go, levelling her gaze at him, and he didn't really have to guess what she was talking about.

'I don't give a shit,' she said quietly. 'Did you know that _she_ would be here?'

He took a calming breath, looking back at her, marvelling again at how far they had come. She was a striking woman, bronzed cheekbones and chocolate eyes. An international face, a captivating voice. The years had been good for her, not so much dampening her ambition and enthusiasm, but maturing it, and the depth that heartache had given her, that soulful, dark edge, had entranced media and fans alike. He often felt that it was a pity that she had never recorded any of the songs that she had written through the years, songs that she had shared with him only in late evenings that they spent together sometimes.

'No,' he replied honestly, 'I didn't know.'

She searched his face for any sign of a lie, any hint of duplicity, but there was none.

'Rachel, I have barely seen her since she has been back,' he stated, 'I met up with her and Jasper for a drink the other night… and that was it. I knew that he was going to be here, obviously, but I had no idea who he was bringing with him.'

The gala itself was brimming with members of the fashion industry, so he had always known that Jasper would be in attendence. Kurt had first been introduced to Jasper a couple of years ago when the photographer moved to New York, and they had collaborated a few times since, becoming something friendlier than colleagues but not quite as close as friends. He had spotted him at the champagne reception, and had suffered a minor aneurysm when he realised who the photographer's date was. He sighed, placing a hand on the agitated singer's shoulder.

'Are you okay, Rach?' he asked gently, and the brunette opened her mouth to speak before shutting it abruptly, shaking her head slowly.

'I just…' she started, 'I don't want to see her. I don't want to talk to her… I don't want to think about her… I need her out of my life, Kurt.'

He felt the urge to hug her, for she looked so lost in that moment, but knew that the gesture would be rejected.

'In a couple of days she will be,' he stated quietly, 'in a couple of days she will be gone.'

But before he could say more, Tom had appeared by their side, that familiar arrogant smirk twisting his lips.

'Why the sad face, beautiful?' he asked, caressing Rachel's cheek and placing his finger under her chin to raise her eyes to his. She shrugged away from his touch, plastering a smile back onto her face.

'It's nothing.'

He tightened his jaw and turned his gaze to Kurt.

'What did you say to her, faggot?'

Rachel bristled. 'Don't call him that, Tom.'

'Why? It's what he is, isn't it?' Tom asked pointedly, his eyes remaining disdainfully on the designer for a moment. 'And if he _upset_ you…'

'He didn't upset me,' Rachel interrupted, and Tom raised his chin a fraction, studying her before the smirk touched his lips again.

'Fine,' he said, rolling his broad shoulders in his designer suit, 'fine. I have something for you that will perk you up…'

Rachel's eyebrows rose together, knowing exactly what he meant by that.

'_Here?'_ she asked incredulously, 'you can't be serious…'

Tom only laughed in response, taking her hands in his.

'This party is dull as shit,' he replied, 'you need something to give you a buzz, Rachel.'

She shook her head, pulling her hands away from his. There had been a time when Rachel Berry had been as pure as a nun. Well, not quite a nun, but she had treated her body like a temple and had been vehemently against poisoning it with drugs or cigarette smoke. Kurt felt a pang of nostalgia as he watched them awkwardly, not really wanting to intrude on their private conversation, but not really wanting to walk away either. He knew that Rachel did not use coke often, but the mere fact that she used at all saddened him. The truth is that once you are in the industry, it is only a matter of time before drugs find you. You don't have to seek them out, you don't have to want them… They present themselves, through friends and colleagues, at parties and after-parties, dinners, dances, concerts, premieres… everywhere. And even the most determined can fall prey.

'I don't want it,' she stated blandly.

'Don't be stupid, baby,' Tom replied with a flash of his perfect teeth, 'do a line or two and we will have ourselves a party tonight.'

'She said that she didn't want it,' Kurt said firmly, making his presence known again, but before he knew what was happening, the actor had slammed him up against the wall. The force with which Kurt hit the plaster knocked the air out of him, Tom's forearm like a steel rod across his chest. The attractive actor leant close, his eyes dilated and dark.

'Get the fuck out of my business, faggot,' his words were quiet, and for the first time since he had met him, Kurt felt a tremor of fear against the man.

'Let him go,' Rachel hissed, glancing around at the few guests who were looking curiously in their direction, 'for christsake, Tom, _what the hell are you doing? Let him go._'

For a heartbeat, Kurt felt Tom's grip tighten, and there was a dangerous moment in which he felt that the man was about to hit him. With reluctance, the actor stepped back, straightening his dinner jacket before sending Rachel a meaningful look.

'When you are done with the fag, come find me,' he instructed her, stalking off in the direction of the bar.

'God, Kurt, I'm so sorry,' Rachel was at his side, straightening his suit before he had really caught his breath. 'I'm so sorry. He just gets a little aggressive when he has done a bit…'

And it was with irritation that Kurt shrugged her off him.

'You shouldn't apologise for him,' he stated.

'Underneath it all…' she started, but Kurt cut her off.

'Don't,' he said firmly, 'just don't, Rachel. You deserve better than this jerk. Seriously.'

'Kurt…' she started, but he pushed himself away from the wall, walking off into the crowd and leaving her behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>Cambodia. 2023. <strong>

_The air was balmy around her like a blanket and a fine sheen of sweat coated her skin. It was only mid-morning and the sun had yet to sear directly through the square of the concrete windows into the bare room. Brittany let out a shuddering breath as she tried to choke the sobs that she wanted to release, rocking still on the coarse mat against the cool floor. _

'_Brittany.'_

_Quinn's voice was gentle by her side, the softness of her hands on her shoulders as she knelt down beside her. But Brittany wouldn't look at her, wouldn't look at anything as it all blurred together._

'_Brittany,' she repeated her name gently again, 'you have to let go.'_

_And in the background she could hear the sound of children outside in the courtyard of the hospital. Of the wildlife all around. _

'_Brittany,' Quinn's steady, soft tone, 'sweetheart… he's gone.'_

_And as she took another shuddering breath, she knew that Quinn was right. But his small body still felt warm against her, and she couldn't quite bring herself to stop rocking him gently, backwards and forwards. Rocking him to sleep as she did with Carlos._

'_No…' she heard herself choke, but Quinn's hands were getting firmer, stilling her in her movement. She looked up in that moment, to the hazel eyes that sparkled with unshed tears. _

'_He's gone, Brittany,' she repeated herself softly. Just as they had known that he would be by morning. A little boy from the provinces, septic from malaria… The villagers had found him out in the paddy fields and tended to him as well as they could until they had been able to bring him to the mobile clinic a few days ago. Instead of continuing on their route through the provinces, Quinn had turned the Jeep around and driven through the night to take him back to the hospital in Phnom Penh, the little boy lying in Brittany's arms all the way. _

'_No…' Brittany objected again, her face wet with tears. She couldn't see the geckos on the walls. Couldn't see the two Khmer men hovering curiously behind Quinn with Nous, the older Khmer surgeon, watching sadly on. She could only see the little boy in her arms that reminded her so much of Carlos. _

'_Yes,' Quinn whispered. _

_And finally, Brittany stilled. Smoothing down the boy's dark hair with a trembling hand. Treatment had come too late, they had found him too late; they had known that he would die. And Brittany had held him through the night, sung him gentle lullabies. _

'_How is this fair?' she asked in a shuddering voice, her bright blue eyes full of despair. Quinn shook her head helplessly._

'_It's not fair,' she answered. Looking down again at the little boy who had barely had a chance to live. There was much more to say, so much more, but no words could possibly do it justice. _

_And Quinn gently helped Nous lift the boy from Brittany's arms, watched them take him away. She blinked away her own tears as she gathered her taller friend into her arms, rocking her soothingly, as she would a child. A flood of guilt rushed through the young doctor, compounding the grief from the loss. She had never intended for Brittany to get involved like that... Never intended for her to get so close... But she should have known that Brittany, with such a big heart, would always love intensely and would always put herself forward to help._

_Quinn pressed a light kiss against the blonde hair as Brittany sobbed in her arms. _

_The world is not fair. The words were not enough to express the pure injustice of it, but it was all they had._

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

It was much later in the evening that Rachel was asking herself why she had allowed herself to be persuaded into snorting the line of the white powder. In truth, it was more out of needing to pacify Tom than it had been her desire for the buzz that it created. But now she felt jittery. Nervous. The usual confident haze was gone and instead she felt agitated.

The music was too loud. The dance floor was too dark. The lights moved in their psychedelic patterns and they were starting to make her head spin. The base was synchronising with her heartbeat, the vibration of it thrumming through her veins, and all she could hear were the minor tones of the saddest song in her head. Every face blurred into that same face, the face that she always saw in the deep of the night. Hazel eyes and bow shaped lips. And Tom's tight grip on her, her agitation, his aggression. The alcohol… she shouldn't have drunk so much alcohol.

'Stop looking for her,' he ordered, his voice tight.

'What?'

Tom was pulling her around to face him, pulling her closer. She knew that it was the coke, that edge of paranoia in his eyes.

'Don't pretend that you don't know what I mean.'

Rachel's jaw tightened.

'I _don't_ know what you mean,' she responded and hissed with the sudden pain of his grip as it tightened around her arm.

'Tom, stop it,' she exclaimed, pulling away from him, 'you're hurting me. _Stop it_.'

For a moment he relented, pulling back a little, and as she looked up at him she had a moment of clarity. A moment in which the sound of her own heartbeat was loud in her ears, and everything else faded away. She wondered why she had chosen him. Was it the aura of success? The ambition that reflected her own? The arrogance? Or maybe, simply, it was because he had none of the characteristics that reminded her of Quinn. They were as different as night and day, and maybe that had been what she had needed.

'Stop looking for her,' he said intently, 'like a little _fucking_ lesbo.'

And the moment he said it, she felt something snap within her. Her tolerance for him had broken.

'Get the hell off me!' her voice rose as she tried to pull away from him, but as she pulled, his grip tightened and the panic that rose in her was like a bubble that burst. She started to struggle in earnest. 'Get the hell off me.'

But the harder that she fought back, the closer he pulled her to him, his frame looming over her. Rachel didn't care that they were drawing attention to themselves. She didn't care. And she wasn't listening to him, the words that were spitting from his mouth like gunfire… until finally the struggle ended, the back of his hand connecting solidly with her cheek, snapping her head back with the force of it. She stumbled sideways, the explosion of pain behind her eyes, and she knew that she was falling the moment that she hit the ground, bright lights flashing across her vision before it all went black.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

'Hush,' the voice came from above through a fog, 'baby, _baby_. It's okay. It's just a dream. Just a dream.'

And as Brittany woke with a start, she looked up to find the soft features of her wife flickering in the firelight. The haze of the dream still clung to her about the edges, the feel of it still so real.

'It was just a dream,' Santana whispered reassuringly, placing a kiss on her forehead as she sat down on the couch beside her. And Brittany pushed herself forwards, trying to shake off the feel of it.

'A dream?' she echoed, shaking her head, 'a dream? No… it was a memory.' She let out a shaky breath. 'A memory.'

Santana caressed her arm.

'It's okay now,' she murmured, and Brittany looked at her, anchoring herself on what was real and letting the vivid thoughts fade away. Her house. Her wife. Her sitting room. Her couch.

'Did you just get home?' she asked, glancing at the clock.

'Ten minutes ago,' Santana shrugged, 'I checked on Carlos… he is fast asleep. And I came down to wake you up, only to find you crying in your sleep.'

Brittany reached up to her face, realising that her cheeks were wet with tears.

'It just felt so real, San,' she said quietly, 'I really felt that I was back there…'

But before she could elaborate the sound of Santana's phone ringing interrupted them. The latina fished for it in her jacket, with the intention of switching it off before she realised who was calling her.

'Sorry, baby, it's Q…' Santana said with some surprise, jabbing the button to answer it with a mixture of irritation and concern.

'Hey…' She started, only to be cut off by whatever the woman was saying on the other side, '_what?..._ Seriously, Quinn, what the….. Okay. Yes, okay….. _Where?_'

There was a long pause and Santana's face had turned stormy. 'I'll call you when I'm there.'

The Latina hung up abruptly.

Brittany looked at her expectantly, but her wife remained stonily silent, her dark eyes fixed on the dying embers of the fire.

'_San?'_

'That _dickhead_ hit Rachel,' Santana said gravely, 'Q thinks that she has a concussion. She's asked me to help get them out of there.'

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

Kurt folded his arms across his chest awkwardly as he leant against the door in the Ladies' bathroom, an unlikely choice for sentry but fiercely determined to help in any way possible. This night was spiralling rapidly out of control and he desperately hoped that it would be over soon without any further mishap.

The blonde's expression could only be described as murderous, so intently murderous that it was starting to worry him. He remembered flashes of her from High School, the darker side of Quinn Fabray, but nothing quite like this. She hung up the phone abruptly, catching and holding his gaze for a moment before crouching down again beside the brunette.

Rachel was slumped against the wall, the beginnings of a bruise already blooming on her cheek and a fine trace of blood against her lip. Quinn's touch was careful, in sharp contrast to her aura, as she knelt to assess the singer again. Kurt cringed as the pale blue of the designer ball gown was crushed into the bathroom floor without a second thought.

'Open your eyes for me, Rach,' the blonde instructed gently, and the singer obeyed, their faces close in a way that made Kurt feel as though he was intruding on a private moment. 'I'm just going to shine a light in them, okay? It will only be for a moment.'

Rachel made the slightest of nods, and carefully Quinn shone the light from her phone into the dark eyes, watching closely for the response.

'Quinn, I…' the brunette started.

'Shhhh,' the blonde murmured, covering the singer's trembling hands with her own. 'It's okay. It's going to be okay.'

But before she could say more, there was a pounding on the door and Kurt found himself finally employed in his role as sentry.

'It's me,' Jasper shouted from the other side, slipping through the gap when Kurt opened the door a little. He looked a little more harassed than usual and Kurt felt a twinge of apprehension.

'Well?' Quinn prompted.

'Someone has already tweeted or blogged or… whatever they do from their stupid smart phones these days,' he shook his head in defeat, 'there are paparazzi camped outside waiting for her to come out.'

'Shit,' Kurt breathed. The last thing that Rachel needed was pictures of her bruised face plastered all over the internet and gossip columns.

'Other exits?' the blonde persisted.

'All covered, Q,' Jasper sighed despondently, 'you aren't going to get her out of here without them crowding you.'

The blonde was silent for a moment, her jaw tightening.

'And _him?_'

Jasper exchanged a glance with Kurt. 'He's still here… with some of his movie-star buddies.'

The blonde gave the most imperceptible of nods, before turning back to Rachel, ghosting her fingertips across the bruised cheek, inspecting her closely. Her movements freezing as she noticed the faint trace of white powder that clung to the soft skin just below Rachel's right nostril.

'God,' Quinn breathed quietly to herself, both certain and shocked in that moment at what it was. Rachel's eyes were closed again, but the silent tears that seeped from the corners of them glistened. More powerfully than any moment over the last week, Quinn felt the crush of regret tighten in her chest.

'What if we don't have to go through the doors,' Kurt suggested suddenly, causing both Jasper and Quinn to turn to him. 'We are on the ground floor, right? Why not just go through the window?'

Jasper shook his head.

'They're all locked,' he stated certainly, dismissing the idea as he gestured towards the narrow bathroom window.

'Then we smash it,' Kurt replied.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Please review.<p> 


	16. Meeting with ghosts

Thank you to everyone who is reading this - and especially to everyone who has reviewed. Again, I would like to warn that this chapter is a bit dark and violent. I promise the intensity will ease off shortly.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 16 - Meeting with ghosts<span>

**Boston. 2020.**

_When she opened the door to the office, it took her a split second to duck to the side out of the path of the missile that smashed against the wall beside her. Quinn froze, half way between surprise and anger as she looked back and forth between the smashed glass on the floor and the woman behind the desk._

_'You could have hit me in the face with that!' she said, her tone sharp as she firmly shut the door behind her._

_'That is what I was aiming for,' came the swift reply. Quinn rolled her eyes, before folding her arms across her scrub top to look wearily at her vicious mentor. Most residents would have run straight out of the door as soon as the glass hit the wall, but Quinn knew Letitia Lennox better than that. She had known her for many years, since the terrifying cardiothoracic surgeon had singled her out after her second year exams._

_'Then I guess I should count myself lucky that you are a poor shot.'_

_'New York? New York, Quinn?' the anger in Dr Lennox's voice made her wince, and she did her best not to close her eyes against it. The older woman was clearly livid. 'Why did I have a request for a reference arrive on my desk from goddamn New York Presbyterian? You are practically my number one fucking candidate. Johns Hopkins… Johns Hopkins I could understand. Mayo – maybe. But goddamn New York Presbyterian?'_

_'It has a good program…' Quinn stated._

_'Good? Good?' Lennox stood up from her chair, bracing her hands flat on her desk to lean across it fiercely, 'But not great. It's fine for every little pissy resident who's scared of their own shadow – that's not you. I have trained you better than that – you're already better than half the fucking third year residents out there. It's not Harvard. It is not Hopkins. Good? Are you fucking kidding me?'_

_Quinn levelled her hazel gaze at her mentor, her mentor who was fuming and seemed ready to spontaneously combust. She had known that this would happen, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with. She wondered how she became attracted to these personalities, it was like they gravitated towards her own. These big, bullying personalities that thrived on people being afraid of them. Russell Fabray had been one of them, Sue Sylvester similarly so, and Letitia Lennox was another unreasonable type A. Quinn felt that she should have become immune many, many years ago._

_'Will you give me a reference?' she asked coolly, refusing to be intimidated. And Lennox straightened her wirely body to its full height, glaring at her with those piercing blue eyes._

_'I saw something in you,' she said icily, 'I saw something in you all those years ago, Quinn, a determination… no… not quite that…' She shook her head to herself. 'A desperation. I don't know whether it was because of your tragic family shit or the guilt-complex that you have been sporting like it's going out of fashion, but you had a hunger to succeed. To be the best.'_

_Quinn exhaled slowly. She had heard this speech before, this one and many others, speeches about hunger and determination and success. About being the best, about never loosing. If nothing else, Letitia Lennox was superbly inspiring, and in truth, Quinn had to admit that she would not have developed or succeeded in such a way without the dogged determination of this woman._

_'I saw it in you,' Lennox repeated, her bright blue eyes hard, 'such… potential. Not because of talent, Quinn, but because you worked hard. You were single minded and desperately hungry… desperately hungry not to lose.'_

_Quinn shook her head tiredly. It had never been success that she had been after, but redemption. She had thrown herself into work not for her aspirations, but to forget. To forget and to bury the memories of what had past, what she could not change._

_'And yet you disappoint me at every turn,' Lennox stated, each word spat like a bullet from a machine gun. 'You are elected for Alpha Omega Alpha – and you turn them down. I tell you to go into surgery – and you pick medicine. You have a residency programme at the number one medical facility in the world – and you try to transfer to goddamn New York Presbyterian?!'_

_Quinn took a deep breath._

_'You are angry with me,' she stated quietly._

_'Damn right, I am angry with you!' the cardiothoracic surgeon snapped._

_'But why?' Quinn demanded, stepping forward to the edge of the desk, 'why? It is my life. These are my decisions. Who are you to say that they are right or wrong?'_

_'Because they are the wrong choices, Quinn,' Lennox retorted, her eyes flashing, 'they are wrong. You have the potential to be so much, and yet you throw it all away… You could be a great doctor; you could do great things. But that only comes from years of dedication. Years of dedication and sacrifice.'_

_'Maybe I was not meant to do great things,' Quinn replied desperately, 'maybe that was not the life that I was meant to lead…'_

_'No one turns down Harvard,' Lennox replied, her tone hard, 'no one. Not even you, Fabray.'_

_Quinn straightened, realising that arguing with the surgeon was close to pointless, and more likely than not would result in another tumbler being thrown at her head._

_'I take it that you will not support my application for transfer,' she surmised coolly._

_A muscle twitched in the cardiothoracic surgeon's jaw._

_'Damn right, I'm not supporting it,' she spat, sitting down dramatically in her chair as Quinn absorbed that piece of information. Slowly, she nodded._

_'Fine,' she replied icily, 'thank you for your time, Dr Lennox.'_

_And with that, turned on her heal to stalk out of the room, but just as she opened the door she glanced over her shoulder at her fearsome mentor._

_'I'm going though, to New York,' she promised steadily, 'with or without your support.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

Quinn's heart was hammering in her chest, steady with anger, and her skin was cold. She felt as though the night air was not touching her. And yet goosebumps rose across her skin, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. She was careful as she helped Rachel into the back of Santana's SUV, the warmth of the singer's body burning against her own. Her movements, until this moment, had been fast and precise, but now they slowed. She gently rested Rachel's head back against the leather of the seats, her fingertips lingering against the soft skin of her cheekbone. She brushed a lock of the dark hair aside, her eyes fixed on the face that had haunted her waking moments as much as her dreams.

'...the asshole hit her across the face and...'

Kurt's voice filtered through her conciousness as he elaborately explained the events of the night to Santana who was sitting impatiently at the driver's seat. Jasper had gone to mislead the paparazzi around the front of the building, leaving Quinn and Kurt to climb out through the broken window with Rachel, to escape to the back alley where Santana waited impatiently in her SUV.

Quinn would have been more than surprised that the plan had worked, but her steady focus was only on the woman in front of her. The woman who had meant everything to her for so long, and the horrible realisation was finally hitting home that Rachel Berry... the Rachel Berry that she had known and loved and tried to protect, that girl was gone. She had failed. She had failed in every possible way; to love her, to protect her. That last little bit of cocaine… she had recognised it the second she saw it, and with it, her illusion of Rachel Berry had shattered.

'Is there nothing about you that I didn't destroy?' she whispered it more to herself than to Rachel, the brunette's eyes were closed, her face peaceful.

'...we figured that the best way to get out of there was to smash the window - well, I suggested smashing the window but Jasper was the one who actually smashed it...'

She didn't even feel the icy wind across her bare skin, the terrible sadness settling within her and fiercely above it the growing rage. A rage she had always been afraid of. She had always wondered if she could be like Russell, like Mickey. They could kill in cold blood, and she had turned away from that once, more than once. And yet the violence in her veins was rising with every passing moment.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered, leaning close to the brunette, 'I'm so sorry, Rachel.'

And as her lips brushed against the woman's warm skin, Quinn thought fleetingly of what might have been had life turned out differently. If she had made different choices.

'Get in the car, Q,' Santana ordered, glancing back at her from the front seat as she listened to Kurt's excited babble. And in the second that the blonde glanced up at her Santana recognised something in her eyes, something that stopped her cold. The Latina stiffened.

'Get in the car,' she repeated; the words harder than they had been the first time.

But instead, Quinn dropped her hand from Rachel's face, letting it fall limply to her side. The light was gone from her hazel eyes, and instead something darker lingered there. Something colder.

'He _hurt _her, San,' she said quietly.

'I said get in the car, Fabray.' Santana's tone was sharp.

And now Kurt was watching them, twisting in his seat and wondering what the hell was going on as Quinn took a step back. A lock of golden hair was swept out of place by the icy wind and she reached up her frozen hands to smooth it back. There were no thoughts in her head, but for the desire to put things right. To make things better that could never be made better. To turn back time, make the right choices. To look after the woman she loved, to protect her in the way that she had been unable to.

To undo all the mistakes that she had made, that they had made.

'Look after her tonight,' she said softly. 'I'll see you in the morning, San…'

Santana understood her better than anyone. Understood that, in that moment, Quinn was in great danger of doing something that she would seriously regret.

_'Quinn_.'

And at the sharpness of Santana's tone, Rachel's dark eyes blinked open. But the blonde was already turning away, the wind buffeting at her dress as she started to cross the distance back to the ballroom, as the paparazzi spotted the car from around the corner and started to swarm down towards it.

'Get back here!' Santana was halfway out of the car when she noticed the crowd of photographers rapidly descending on them. 'Get your ass back here, Q!'

But the blonde ignored her and Santana swore as she found herself torn between going after the blonde and getting Rachel out of there. The decision took a split second, and she chose Rachel, as they had both known that she would.

'Shit.' She swore, starting the ignition.

As Kurt reached over the brunette and shut the back door of the SUV, Santana watched the blue dress disappear into the dark of the night in her rear-view mirror. That terrible feeling that had been plaguing her for the last few days gnawed in her belly. Maybe this was how she would always be watching Q, watching the blonde run away.

'Where's she going?' Kurt asked, bewildered. Gritting her teeth, Santana slammed the SUV into reverse, speeding wildly away from the photographers whose cameras had started to flash like strobe lighting.

Santana's expression was grim as she replied, swinging the car across the road for the most haphazard three-point turn that sent Kurt flying across the back seat of the car.

'To do something really stupid,' she growled through clenched teeth. 'Call her cellphone.'

Kurt grabbed onto the side of the seat to steady himself, fumbling to strap Rachel in with a seatbelt, before noticing the phone on the seat beside her as it slid down onto the floor.

'I... uhhh,' he started, glancing back up to the angry Latina as they pulled out onto the main road. 'I don't think that's going to work... her phone is on the floor.'

To which Santana smacked the palms of her hands down onto the steering wheel in irritation. The SUV merged with the traffic on the busy streets of Manhattan, filtering in amongst the yellow cabs. And Rachel Berry was successfully whisked away into the night.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

The music of the afterparty was deafening when Quinn re-entered the ballroom, the lights low but for the old fashioned rave lasers that were cutting through the crowd. It had been years since she had enjoyed being in a crowd, the mass of bodies dancing in tight unison. But it all seemed to slow down for Quinn, the fierce rush of adrenaline had drained the colour from her vision as surely as if someone had whitewashed the world.

She paused at the edge of the dance floor, leaning herself against one of the pillars, not so much for support but to steady herself. Anchor herself to reality. She felt so unlike herself in that moment, so unreal, just a person distilled from the rage that burnt inside. The hairs were rising on the back of her neck, her nerves as sharp as a blade.

It reminded her poignantly of that other time, years ago, when she had been in that concrete basement in Chicago, her back pressed against the wall and the gun in front of her. The cold hatred she had felt then, that hatred that she had felt for years against the murderer of her family had started to warm and fracture, icy chunks of it floating up to the surface. And in the years following, she had learnt to forgive herself; through Rachel, through Rachel's love. The warm brunette was everything that Quinn was not, she always had been.

In the occasional flash of the coloured lights, she could see him. Tom Meyer. His perfect Hollywood smile, his perfect face, throwing his head back and laughing. She felt that she had watched him for the longest time, as though watching him from underwater, looking up longingly at the fractured light on the surface.

She pushed herself off the pillar, cutting through the crowd towards him; a hot knife through butter.

Tom noticed her approach a second before she stepped straight into his personal space, drawing the semi-amused attention of his entourage.

'Why, if it isn't Jungle Barbie,' he smirked, his eyes cold, refusing to back away from her.

She raised her chin, the pale of her skin as hard as marble. The sound seemed to seep from the air around them.

'Never go near her again,' Quinn warned softly.

He chuckled at her words, flashing those perfect pearly white teeth.

'Have you come to threaten me for your little _lesbo_ girlfriend?' he mocked.

The hazel eyes that stared at him were dark, no flicker of emotion on her smooth expression. It was as though she was dead already. The light was gone. The light that usually flashed within a person's eyes, and if he had been sober it would have unsettled him.

'As if I would even want to _dirty_ myself by touching her again,' he snarled, in a voice so low that only she could hear him. '_Rachel Berry_… Rachel Berry is _history_. Without me, she would never have been anything in the first place. And just as easily as I _made_ her, I can _break_ her too, Quinn. And I will.'

The sharp barbs of his words made little impression on her, or the steadiness of her gaze. The stillness of her belied the turmoil that was raging beneath the surface. She could read the imprecision of his movements, the dilated eyes; drunk and high and aggressive.

'I may have hurt her,' he leant closer to her, the warmth of his breath across her skin, 'I may have hurt her, but I could never hurt her as much as you have.'

And finally at that, she showed a flicker of emotion. He knew that the blow had landed, and like a predator he pounced.

'She never wanted you,' he stated, the words quiet and stony, 'she never wanted to see you again... And that night that you came back, that night you went to see her at the theatre… she _begged_ me to help her forget you. To put you back where you belong… in the past.'

Quinn flinched. The images were too vivid in her mind. The images of times gone, of the life that they had had, of the life that she had walked away from. The happiest time of her short life. The smile curled his lips again, the sharpness of his incisors flashing.

'And I did,' he said, that cold smile reaching his eyes, 'she screamed my name, Quinn. _My name_. All night long… and I took her in every _slutty_ position that she begged me for. Like a little whore.'

She closed her eyes, her jaw clenched. But when she re-opened them, they were as soulless as they had been before. Quinn ran the tip of her tongue across the enamel of her teeth.

'I'm warning you, Tom,' she said softly, '_never_ go near her again.'

And at that he rolled his eyes, glancing at the semi-circle of his friends who were looking on with interest.

'Am I meant to be afraid of you, _dyke?_'

This time she felt the small smile curve the corner of her lips.

'You should be,' she replied quietly, her words dripping from her tongue like honey, 'you have no idea, Tom... No idea what I…'

She cut herself off before saying too much, before saying what she was thinking. That same darkly murderous rage was burning beneath her skin, the rage that she was afraid of.

'Leave her alone…' she said finally, keeping a shaky control of herself, 'stay out of her life, asshole.'

And before she could lose control of her temper, she stepped away, cutting swiftly through his friends towards the darkened corridor that lead to the foyer.

The corridor was empty but for her and her footsteps and the beating of her heart. She realised that he was following her a moment before her back hit the plaster of the wall, knocking the air out of her. His fingers dug bruisingly into her upper arms, holding her tightly in his grasp.

'Don't you dare threaten me,' he spat, their faces close. The smooth line of his perfect jaw a fraction above her own, the roughness of his stubble grazing against her. The glow of the green emergency sign cutting them into awkward shadows. And that iciness, that hard iciness that was fracturing within her seemed almost ready to crack again. She was still for a moment, a moment with no thoughts, no consideration, but pure rage at everything that had happened, at the complicated way that fate had twisted her life, at how it had left her bruised and battered and helpless, again and again.

It was without thought that she slammed her knee up into his groin, and as he doubled over his grip on her loosened, not quite enough for her to be free of him, but enough for her to launch her body weight into him, propelling herself off the wall. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet as she knocked him off balance. They collapsed onto the floor together, a tangle of limbs. He reached up to grab her and the silken fabric of her dress tore beneath his strong hands. The fear of him was real, but it was swamped somewhere by that dark rage. She didn't see him as she lashed out, her fist connecting solidly against the smooth structures of his face. The pain of the impact shot up her arm, not just once, but over, and over, as she struck out with all the violence that had been boiling in her veins. He struggled beneath her, twisting his body to protect his face, he lashed out at her, his knuckles glancing off her cheekbone and into the bridge of her nose, the cartilage crunching under the impact. The pain of it cut through the red haze and Quinn scrambled backwards, tearing herself away from him. Clawing her way across the floor.

Breathing heavily from the struggle, she looked down at him with horror at what she had done, at the surprising mess of blood on his face. Her own blood was pooling in her mouth, from biting her tongue when he had hit her, and she could feel the warmth of it seeping from her nostril down over her upper lip. She spat it out at him, the dark stain of it spreading across his shirt, and without pausing to pick up her shoes, she grabbed her purse and turned to run, as fast as she could manage, to get out of there.

The drizzle of rain had started in the hour in between Santana's getaway and the present, and the cool scent of it filled her as she ran out into the street. The lights sparkled off their reflections on the asphalt. It took Quinn twenty seconds to hail a cab, the driver peering out at her with concerned eyes. He twisted in his seat to turn to her as she slipped into the back seat, starting to shiver, finally, from the cold.

His eyes were knowing as he took in her appearance. Her torn dress. The fresh blood dripping from her nose. Tom's blood on her raw knuckles, across the pale blue satin. But more, the haunted look in those darkening eyes. Pale as a ghost.

'The police station?' he asked.

'No,' she objected, 'I…'

She glanced away, catching her semi-formed refection in the glass of the window. She looked mess. A horrible mess, and within that dark reflection she could imagine the monster beneath her alabaster skin. The monster inside.

'It's not what it looks like,' she said, cradling one hand in the other. She felt sickened by what she had done. Horrified. 'This isn't…'

'If someone has hurt you,' the driver cut her off meaningfully, '_if someone has hurt you_… you should go to the police.'

'It's not…' she took a breath to steady the shakiness of her voice, 'it's not what it looks like.'

He gave her a look which clearly stated that he did not believe her.

'The hospital then?' he suggested, but she just shook her head. Shook her head as she looked out into the rain, the darkness of the night much like the one two years before when her world had turned upside down once again. The tears stung at her eyes, too late to be shed.

'No,' she replied tightly, trying to keep control of the rapidly fraying edges of her sanity, 'no… I… just take me home. Please take me home.'

His eyes were full of sympathy as he gently tried to probe. She was in shock, he realised. Her hands trembling.

'Where's home?' he asked softly.

And Quinn blinked, unseeingly, at the question. The void of emptiness swelling within her. It burst like a bubble, and in that moment she started to cry and laugh all at once, swiping at the tears and congealing blood. The tears came fast and furiously, and in her mind she could not think to picture anything. Couldn't bear to think of any of it any more. Not of Lima; not of the blazing house, nor of the basement in Chicago, or that hazel eyed man. Not of Harvard, not of Jasper. Not of Santana, or Brittany, or Carlos. And most especially, most importantly, not of Rachel.

'Where's home?' He echoed himself, regretting, for a moment, stopping for her.

'Take me…' she started, looking out at the tall buildings of New York, lined up like greying tombstones. Her breathing steadied, a cool certainty settling within her. 'Take me to Queens.'

_'Queens?'_

And it felt right as she said it, with the ominous tone of the death knell.

'New York Hospital Queens,' she repeated, the words feeling empty. For she had always sworn that she would never go back. But maybe it was what she needed, to lay the ghosts to rest on this darkest of nights.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

It was 2am when the knocking at the door startled Santana from her musings as she watched the dying embers of the fire. She rushed up to get it, hoping irrationally to find the blonde on the other side of the door, only to be disappointed to see Jasper there instead.

He rushed inside, rainwater pooling around his feet as he shrugged out of his jacket.

'I've looked everywhere, I swear,' he stated hopelessly, 'she's not at the gala, that's certain. And she's not at her hotel.'

'Then where the hell is she?' Santana asked irritably, taking his coat from him and hanging it up. She looked him up and down, a line forming between her furrowed brows. 'Take them off.'

'What?' he asked, confused.

'Shoes, socks, trousers,' she said, waving a hand up and down to indicate him, 'all of it. Off. You're soaked.'

He looked at her in disbelief.

'You want me standing here in my _boxers?_' he asked and Santana rolled her eyes.

'Well I don't want you standing _anywhere_ in my house soaked in rainwater. You'll ruin the carpet. Don't be so prudish, Jasper,' she chastised before turning on her heel to march to the downstairs bathroom. 'You can keep the shirt on. I'll get you a towel.'

With reluctance, the photographer started to peel off his wet clothes, looking distinctly uncomfortable when Santana returned, throwing a big fluffy pink towel at him. He raised an eyebrow at it.

'You know, it is actually a fantasy of mine to have an attractive lesbian tell me to take all my clothes off,' he said conversationally, wrapping the towel around himself, 'but there is something about _you_ that terrifies me.'

Santana smirked, ushering him through to the sitting room.

'Glad I could ruin another fantasy of yours,' she quipped.

Jasper settled himself down onto the floor in front of the dying fire, stretching his hands out to warm them up, glancing at the half-completed jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table.

'How's Rachel?' he asked.

'She's upstairs with Britt,' Santana replied, settling herself onto the couch. 'She was quite shaken up by the whole thing... Has a nasty bruise across her face but, apart from emotionally, I think that she is okay.'

The Latina's dark eyes focused on the fire for a moment, ire stirring within her.

'That guy is bad news,' she shook her head, 'I never liked him. Too arrogant, too fake…'

Jasper shrugged his broad shoulders.

'Well he got what he deserved,' he commented absently.

'What do you mean?'

He glanced back at her, a smirk on his lips.

'Someone smashed his _beautiful_ face in,' he replied, 'it'll be all over the gossip columns tomorrow. The paparazzi couldn't get enough of it apparently.'

Santana raised her eyebrows.

'And you are telling me that Quinn _wasn't_ there?' she asked pointedly.

'Santana, he is like 170 pounds or more,' Jasper scoffed. 'I love Q, but there is no way… _no way_…'

'Momma?... Mami?'

Jasper's comment was cut off by the small voice that came from the doorway. Santana twisted to look over towards the doorway, a frown furrowing her forehead as she caught sight of her son. He stood hesitantly in the doorway wearing his New York Knicks pajamas and clutching his pillow in one hand.

His hesitation seemed to vanish, however, when he caught sight of Jasper by the fire.

'What are _you_ doing with my Mami?' he demanded, a frown furrowing his brow as he marched fiercely across the room.

'Manners, young man,' Santana reprimanded lightly as he came to stand at the end of the couch, glaring down at the man in the pink towel. Her little boy's dark eyes flicked to her.

'Sorry Mami,' he murmured, before turning his glare back on Jasper. The photographer blinked back at him. Jasper was certain that Santana's son was some indirect relation to the devil.

'Hi… Carlos,' he said as the little boy folded his arms across his chest, looking hugely unimpressed.

'What are you doing out of bed, baby?' Santana asked, taking his hand in hers and turning him around to face her. They had been through a period only six months ago when Carlos had taken to wandering downstairs in the middle of the night and it had been an infuriating habit to break. 'It's two in the morning.'

'Couldn't sleep,' he replied vaguely, raising one hand to rub at his eyes. Carlos knew that it was best, if he was doing something that he ought not to be doing, to look as cute as he could whilst doing it.

'Bad dreams?' she asked.

Carlos glanced towards the dying flames of the fire and chewed on his lower lip.

'I…' he started quietly, before glancing back at Jasper. 'No. No bad dreams.'

'Then I think that you should be going back to bed, sweetheart,' his Mami stated firmly. He must have woken when Jasper had arrived and curiously decided to come downstairs.

'But…' he started to object.

'No buts,' she cut him off, 'except yours going back up those stairs in the next thirty seconds, Carlos.'

'_He's_ awake,' the little boy objected, indicating towards the photographer with one hand.

'_He_ is not seven years old,' his Mami replied. 'End of discussion, baby. Now _back_ to bed.'

Carlos glowered at the photographer again before Santana pulled her son towards her, planting a kiss on his forehead.

'Goodnight sweetheart,' she said firmly, 'I'll come up and check on you later.'

'Goodnight, Mami,' he replied, kissing her cheek. His eyes narrowed as he looked back at the photographer, still hesitating. 'Goodnight… _Jasper._'

Santana rolled her eyes before turning him around and tapping him on the seat of his pajamas to get him moving.

'_Bed._'

And they both watched him scurry off, out of the sitting room. Jasper sighed.

'Your son really hates me,' he murmured. And Santana looked back at him, her dark gaze softening.

'No… he doesn't,' she replied softly. 'He just can't figure you out, that's all, Jasp.'

The photographer raised his eyebrows, not so much at her words but the use of his nickname.

'Come on, Santana,' he said with a shake of his head, 'you never liked me either… You have always made that clear.'

The Latina curled her legs under herself, looking at him thoughtfully. Certainly, she had never been the nicest person towards him, but, as with many things, it was more complicated than it first appeared.

'I could never figure you out either,' she admitted, a small smile playing on her lips. 'You came into Quinn's life… and, I guess… she was my best friend, Jasper. After the fire, we were closer than sisters. So when you came into her life, in Boston, I was jealous. I didn't realise that it didn't change anything between me and Q.'

Jasper rolled his eyes.

'Nothing could change what you mean to her…'

'No,' Santana agreed. 'I know that… But something happened to Quinn, something she holds close to herself, that she has never told me. And I… I always thought that she had told you.'

Jasper slowly shook his head.

'She has her secrets,' he shrugged a shoulder. 'But she holds them close.'

Santana appraised him, lifting her chin a little and nodding in mutual understanding.

'Rachel is in our guestroom, but…' she smirked at the pink towel he had wrapped himself in, 'I can get you some bedding for the couch.'

'Thanks, Santana,' he allowed himself a small smile, 'I appreciate it.'

And as she got up off the couch, straightening the cushions, the other event of the evening came back to him. The little argument that he had had with the blonde before the drama had unfolded, the uneasy feeling it had left him with.

'San…' he addressed her hesitantly, and the Latina glanced back over at him, an eyebrow raised. 'I argued with her tonight…'

'With Quinn?' Santana clarified, before rolling her eyes heavenward, 'I argue with her every time we meet.'

But the quip didn't make him smile. He looked at her earnestly.

'I think that she told me something that she didn't mean to,' he said hesitantly, uncertain whether he should disclose the information to her or not. The Latina cocked her head to one side, waiting for him to go on.

'Which was?' she probed.

'When she left two years ago… before she went to Cambodia,' he replied quietly, '…she never cheated on Rachel.'

But there was none of the shock that he expected to see in the dark eyes at the revelation, just a closed look that he couldn't quite place.

'She never cheated on Rachel?' the Latina echoed.

'That's what she said,' Jasper nodded.

There was movement at the doorway, and without looking back, Santana stiffened.

'_Carlos,_' she said firmly, '_go_ back to bed. I'll be up in a minute.'

'It's not Carlos,' Rachel's tone was even.

And Santana turned around quickly, looking guiltily over her shoulder as the petite brunette stepped out of the shadows of the doorway. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders and she wore one of Brittany's oversized old dance school sweatshirts, her legs bare beneath. The shadow of the bruise on her cheek highlighted the haunted look in her dark eyes. Dark eyes that looked searchingly between Jasper and Santana.

'How long have you been there?' Santana asked.

Rachel gave her a withering look.

'Long enough,' she replied pointedly. 'I came down for some water.'

And as Santana opened her mouth to speak again, Jasper jumped in, sitting up straight on the floor.

'That's all she said to me, Rachel,' he told her honestly, drawing the dark eyes to focus on him.

'That she _didn't_ cheat on me?' she echoed, the words dripping with disdain.

'That's what she said…' he replied, 'that's all she said.'

The brunette rolled her eyes wearily, folding her arms across her chest and shaking her head.

'Well, we all know that is not true,' she stated simply. 'So I would appreciate it if you didn't spread gossip, Jasper. Quinn told me what she had done the day after she did it. She told me _herself_. And that is the end of it.'

And in the finality of her tone, Jasper felt his heart sink a little more.

'Okay,' he held his hands up to pacify her, 'okay. My mistake.'

Though she was a woman, a fully grown woman, in that moment Rachel looked more like a fragile child, hurt and lost. Santana crossed the distance to her, resting a hand on her shoulder that Rachel simply shrugged off.

'Come on, Rach,' she murmured cajolingly, displaying the caring side that few were privileged enough to witness. And as Jasper watched the Latina lead her away, he felt an uneasy certainty, that the simple truth that Quinn wanted Rachel to believe was much more convoluted beneath the surface.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

'Why did you come here?'

Quinn recognised his voice without needing to turn to see him. She waited outside the entrance of the ER department, watching the emergency doors open and close as people moved in and out, just as she had once done. The sounds of sirens hung in the air, another ambulance, another resus… and the carefully controlled urgency within those walls… she knew what happened within those walls. Once she had been a part of it. Part of it all.

'How did you find me?' she asked, though she knew that she shouldn't be surprised.

He stepped up beside her, slowly unzipping his jacket to shrug it off.

'I tailed your cab,' he replied, 'from the gala. I was out front.'

'You should have followed Rachel…'

'I've been following Rachel for two years,' he cut her off, holding out his coat to her. She looked at it. Raindrops dripped from it to the paving stones beneath them.

'I've kept her safe,' he stated quietly.

Her eyes finally glanced up to meet his, and in the slate grey of them she could see flickers of her own reflection.

'Thank you,' she said earnestly, quietly. Her lips pale from the cold. 'For all that you have done for her… for me.'

The hint of a smile touched at the corner of his thin lips.

'It's the least I could do,' he replied pointedly. And with heavy movements, she accepted the raincoat, shrugging it on over her narrow shoulders, over the blood spattered ball gown. Her eyes were drawn back to the doors of the ER, sliding open, sliding closed. Over and over and over. So familiar, as though a day had not passed since she had been here last.

'It's not safe for you to be in New York,' he stated, placing a cigarette between his lips. The flick of the lighter illuminated his face, his hollow features and the thin scar that ran across his right cheek.

Quinn snorted derisively at the comment.

'It was _never_ safe for me to be in New York,' she replied. 'It wasn't safe for me. It wasn't safe for John.'

He inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

'Is that why you are here?' He asked, nodding towards the hospital doors. But Quinn simply shrugged a shoulder, tightening the coat around her.

'I feel as though I should have brought flowers,' she remarked, wiping at the dried blood across her upper lip. Her skin was wet from the rain, from earlier tears, and her blonde hair was plastered across her forehead. 'For him.'

He leant back against the wall of the building, but was silent. He had always been a man of few words, in all the time that she had known him.

'I'm still waiting to wake up from this nightmare,' she said bitterly, glancing over her shoulder at him, 'but I'm starting to realise that I never will.'

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading - please review.<strong>


	17. The eye of the storm

Thank you for the reviews. This fic is killing me, it really is, but it will start resolving itself shortly, and there will be an end to the angst, hopefully. Happy new year everyone.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 17 - The eye of the storm<span>

**New York. 2020.**

_It was the brightness of the early morning sun that stirred Rachel from the deep sleep into which she had so seamlessly sunk the night before. Her limbs felt heavy, not from weariness, but from a satisfaction that penetrated deep to her bones and anchored her securely within the sheets. The summer sun streamed through the red blinds, casting a warm glow about the room, and she felt a smile tug at her lips as she looked down on the woman who lay peacefully entangled in her arms._

_It always made her smile to watch Quinn sleep. The years lifted from the lines of her face, and in the trick of the light, Rachel could believe that she was seventeen again, that she was obsessed with NYADA and Quinn was focussed on getting a place to major in Drama. That the blonde was still trying to memorise little latin passages from Carmina Burana, and Rachel was memorising dance steps for her latest competition. They would argue about silly things like whether the blonde should apply to Tisch or Yale… and the arguments would be heated, and illogical, and would inevitably result in one of them storming out. Only to have them make up again, only hours later, with cookies or chocolates or flowers forgotten on the desk as they reconnected on a more primal level. _

'_You're staring at me again,' Quinn murmured without opening her eyes, the words mostly muffled by the pillow._

'_How can you tell?' Rachel asked playfully, trailing a fingertip along the curve of the blonde's spine, dipping into the small gap between each vertebrae._

_Quinn yawned._

'_I can feel it,' the young doctor nuzzled her head closer in to Rachel's body. _

'_Oh really?'_

'_Really,' Quinn breathed in the vanilla scent of the brunette, smiling into her soft skin. 'I can always feel it when you look at me... it's like lying in the sun.'_

_Rachel pressed a gentle kiss against the silken skin, lost for words against how to reply. Outside, she could hear the sounds of the city waking up, the traffic and the people, the stifling heat of the day. But here, in the sheets, she could let the responsibilities of the world outside melt away. _

_The blonde started to roll over, only to moan as she caught her hand, tugging against the dark silk scarf that still anchored one wrist loosely to the bed frame. _

'_Rachel,' she scolded sleepily, tugging at it ineffectually. _

_The singer chuckled, biting down gently on her lip as thoughts of the night before washed over her in gentle waves. Quinn had arrived from Boston late in the evening, drained from finishing a gruelling twelve day stretch of long shifts but determined not to wait until morning to do the long drive down to New York. It was an argument they often had, Rachel and she, about the dangers of driving in such a state. Whilst Rachel understood that Quinn wanted to see her, she would also prefer to see her alive and utter exhaustion was not conducive to driving safely. So once again, the fierce argument had been on the tips of their tongues and their night together had felt edgy from the start, like the buzz of energy in the air when you know that an electric storm is brewing. And while the conversation had been short-tempered, the resulting sex had been phenomenal. _

'_Sorry, baby,' she murmured, tracing soft fingertips up over the blonde's arm, 'we must've passed out before untying that one.'_

_The hazel eyes finally blinked open to fix her with a look. _

'_Well, you can untie it now,' she suggested, a hint of a smile on her lips. And Rachel rolled towards her, pushing her gently back into the pillows before placing a quick kiss against her. _

'_And where would the fun be in that?' she quipped. _

'_Rachel…'_

'_Quinn?' _

_The blonde rolled her eyes. _

'_Please?' _

_And the brunette chuckled again at the slightly irritable tone, kissing the full lips as she reached up to nimbly untie the silk. It had not been tied tightly and unravelled easily beneath her fingertips. She took the soft hand in hers, raising it to her lips to kiss the fading scar tissue that wound around Quinn's forearm like a silver snake. She had mapped each and every one of Quinn's scars in the two years that they had been back together, the scars that the blonde had been so reluctant to let her see. Each and every one of them reminding her of the distance that they had travelled to be together again. _

'_I love you,' Rachel murmured. _

_And though the city outside was waking, Quinn felt that the world itself could be entirely within these walls. Within this bed. She reached up, brushing the long dark hair from Rachel's face. She no longer saw only the past when she looked at her, was no longer filled with that aching regret for the years gone by; she saw something infinitely more promising. A future, waiting to happen. _

'_I love you,' she smiled. Contentedness seemed to wash over her in that moment, warm and fulfilling. She bit her lip, weighing up the news that she had kept so close to her over the last couple of months. _

'_I have something to tell you,' she stated carefully. And maybe it was the way in which she said it that caused Rachel to pull back, narrowing her eyes at the blonde. _

'_A good thing?' she asked, suspicion colouring her tone. _

'_Maybe.' _

_If Rachel could have crossed her arms across her chest without feeling totally foolish, she would have done, but being naked rather took the gravity out of the gesture. She settled for raising an imperious eyebrow at her lover. _

'_Well?' Rachel prompted expectantly. 'Out with it, Fabray.'_

_The blonde's lips twisted, not in the slightest bit intimidated by the look she was receiving. She propped herself up on her elbows, kissing the pouting lips. _

'_Don't worry,' she said reassuringly, 'it's not bad.'_

_Rachel's expression didn't shift, and instead, Quinn tangled their legs together before overbalancing the brunette, pinning her hands above her head to the mattress. Rachel's breath caught, eyes darkening at their sudden reversal in position. _

'_Then tell me,' the brunette demanded and Quinn smiled as she leant down, kissing her neck, once, twice, before reaching her ear._

'_I'm coming to New York,' she whispered. _

_Rachel's brow furrowed, not quite processing the words. _

'_What?' _

_Quinn bit her lip. _

'_I'm coming here, Rachel,' she repeated herself, 'I'm staying here. New York.'_

_The singer pushed her away, her expression serious. _

'_Don't joke about things like this, Quinn,' she warned seriously. _

'_I'm not,' the blonde replied. 'I applied to Presbyterian for a transfer from Harvard. New York Presbyterian Hospital… for residency. They called me last week.'_

_Rachel's expression was shocked. She opened her mouth for a moment, then closed it again, a million different emotions crossing her face. Her silence grew longer and with it a seed of uncertainty started to form within the blonde. _

'_Say something,' Quinn urged, feeling anxious suddenly of the reaction that she was receiving. _

'_I…' the singer started, frowning up at the ceiling, 'we talked about this.'_

_Quinn's lips twitched. _

'_I know.'_

'_And we decided it would be terrible for your career…'_

'_No,' Quinn corrected her steadily, 'you decided that it would be terrible for my career.' _

'_Quinn…'_

_The blonde rolled over onto her back, realising that maybe she should have anticipated this. Their argument had been pretty intense when they had discussed it a couple of months before, but then, most of their arguments were. And most of the time they weren't even about anything too serious – it was just that they were both stubborn and opinionated, and as a result their disagreements could flare. _

'_Don't "Quinn" me,' she objected._

_Rachel sighed, recognising the tone and rolling over onto her side, her dark eyes serious._

'_Baby,' she started, 'look at me... Look at me, Quinn.'_

_Reluctantly the blonde met her gaze, and Rachel recognised both the superficial hardness as well as the poorly hidden vulnerability beneath._

'_It's not that I don't want you to be in New York,' she started earnestly, 'I want that more than anything else in the world, I really do…'_

'_Then what's the problem?' Quinn cut her off, and Rachel bristled. At that moment she was torn between so many emotions that she didn't know which way to turn, but somehow the overwhelming feeling that filtered through was to protect the girl beside her. _

'_The problem is that we talked about this,' she repeated herself, realising that she was sounding much more sensible than she felt. 'You are in a residency program, sweetheart. In Harvard.'_

'_Now you are starting to sound like Dr Lennox…' _

'_You worked so hard to get there, Quinn,' Rachel reminded her, 'it's the best in the world - you will be amongst the best in the world. We both know that you shouldn't give that up… not for me, not for anyone.'_

_Quinn pushed herself up, her face stony. _

'_I'm not giving it up for you,' she stated earnestly. 'I'm giving it up for me. I'm choosing to be with you, Rachel. That is more important to me; you are more important to me… I can't spend the next three years of my life commuting between Boston and New York! I can't do that anymore. I want to wake up with you in the morning; I want to go to sleep with you at night. I want to come home to you, Rach... This is home to me.' _

_Rachel pulled the sheets closer to her, worrying her lower lip between her teeth thoughtfully. Quinn softened, stretching out her body as she looked up at the brunette who was silhouetted by the warm glow of the morning light. She shrugged a narrow shoulder._

'_You know, it's all bullshit anyway,' she said lightly, sensing that she was making some small progress with the brunette, 'Harvard isn't the best. Neither is Hopkins, or Mayo, or Columbia… they all think that they are the best, but medicine is medicine – no matter where you go. Sure, I'd learn a lot at Harvard… but I could work in outback Australia and learn just as much about being a good doctor…'_

_Rachel pursed her lips in thought, regarding the blonde solemnly._

'_I just don't want you to make a big mistake by transferring, Quinn.'_

_The blonde smiled at her smugly. _

'_Well, you can't make the decision for me…'_

_She could tell that Rachel was not quite sold on the idea, her eyebrows rising again. Quinn rolled onto her side to face her, the sheet slipping down from her lithe body. _

'_Don't be grumpy with me, baby,' she tried cajolingly, tired of arguing about it, 'it's already done. I'm transferring in six weeks... and that is it.'_

_And finally, the smile started reluctantly at the corners of the singer's mouth. _

'_You're coming to New York?' she finally asked, and Quinn's answering smile spread widely across her face. She nodded wordlessly, watching as the news finally started to sink in. 'You're really coming to live in New York?'_

'_Six weeks.' Quinn bit her lip again, trying to contain her own excitement. _

_Rachel shook her head to herself, unable to process the news; filled with an excitement mixed in with a small measure of fear. Quinn; New York. Quinn and her. New York. Together. Finally together. She couldn't quite get her head around it. _

'_When did you apply?'_

_Quinn shrugged, relieved that Rachel's excitement had finally started to show. _

'_About… two months ago, I guess,' she replied, 'I had an interview that week that we held a dinner party for B's birthday…'_

_Her self-satisfaction was short lived as her lover reached out and slapped her once, hard, on her ass. _

'_Hey!' Quinn objected, frowning up at the brunette who was looking at her with a hint of amusement, 'what was that for?' _

_Rachel snorted. _

'_For not telling me.' She replied bluntly. _

'_I didn't want to get your hopes up…'_

'_You didn't want me to argue with you,' Rachel corrected her. _

_Quinn smirked, reaching up to pull the brunette back down onto the bed, taking the singer's hands in her own to bring them up so that she could kiss her palms._

'_Maybe it was a bit of both,' she admitted their faces close together. 'But I wanted to wait until I knew… I have wanted this so much, Rachel.' _

_And finally the brunette smiled, pressing their foreheads together, holding onto her tightly. And when Quinn opened her eyes she saw the sparkling of tears in Rachel's, the presence of them sending a shot of worry through her. _

'_I didn't realise that I wanted this so much…' the singer whispered, laughing through the tears that were clinging to her eyelashes like tiny diamonds, 'it always just seemed so… impossible. I just… I just can't quite believe it.'_

_Quinn's thumb dashed away her tears, planting light kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids. _

'_Don't cry,' she urged, 'please don't cry…'_

'_They're happy tears, Quinn,' Rachel objected, smiling, and laughing, and crying all at once. _

'_I know,' the blonde admitted, 'I know but…'_

_She took a deep breath, unable to curb the smile that split her face._

'_It's all going to be alright,' she said finally, that warmth suffusing her, warmth that travelled down her limbs, to her fingertips, to her toes. Warmth that helped her glow, that banished all the darkness. 'Everything is going to work out,' she stated with quiet certainty, 'because I love you. And you love me… And as long as that is the case then nothing can ever hurt us.'_

_She pressed her forehead against Rachel's once more, closing her eyes._

'_You're all I need.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

Carlos had been quietly working on his sums in the kitchen when he heard the front door softly close, followed by quiet footsteps in the hall. He hopped down off his chair with curiosity. The Lopez-Pierce household was still asleep, Auntie Rachel up in the guestroom and Jasper snoring on the couch in the sitting room... Something was going on, he could feel it, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. He had been given strict instructions by his Mami to be quiet this morning before she had disappeared into her study to work, and he had actually been doing his best to comply.

He peered curiously around the doorframe, recognising the blonde instantly even though she was not facing him.

'Auntie Quinn!' he exclaimed as he barrelled into her, knocking the air from her lungs. He didn't see her wince as she twisted towards him, hugging him close to her.

'Shhhh, Carlos,' she scolded lightly, 'people are sleeping.'

'I've been quiet _all morning_,' he whispered back as she placed a quick kiss on his dark curls. She rolled her eyes.

'It's only half past eight,' she replied wryly, ushering him back through to the kitchen and closing the door softly behind her. When he looked up at her the shock on his young face struck her to the core. She had returned to her hotel only a couple of hours before, stood beneath the hot lances of water in the shower and tried to clean the dirt and blood from her skin. A hopeless task, for no matter how hard she tried, it never seemed to be enough.

Her nose wasn't broken, as far as she could tell; at least it wasn't displaced, but the dark purple and blue of the bruising around her eye and over her cheekbone had been difficult to cover even with the most careful application of make-up. Carlos' dark eyes were filled with a horror she had hoped to avoid. She tried to smile, but it was half-hearted at best.

'It's okay…' she started, sitting down in the chair beside where he had been completing his homework.

'Were you fighting?' he asked her earnestly, reaching out gently to trace the dark bruising around her eye.

'No,' Quinn lied smoothly, glancing down at the bandages she had wrapped around her right hand. It certainly felt as though she had sprained it, and in truth, her whole body ached from the activities of the night before. She still couldn't quite believe what she had done, the shame of it lying heavily within her. 'I fell down the stairs.'

He blinked at her, concern written across his face.

'Does it hurt?'

She smiled reassuringly at him.

'Not really,' she replied quietly and he gave her a knowing look that she would swear he had learnt from Santana. Before she could say another word, the boy had dashed across the kitchen and was nimbly clambering up onto the counter, reaching into a cupboard for a decorated tin. He jumped back down onto the balls of his feet, bringing it quietly towards her.

She raised an eyebrow at him, certain, just by the stealthy manner in which he was moving that he was doing something that he was forbidden to do.

'What's this?' she asked quietly as he opened the lid.

'Momma always gives me some when I hurt myself,' he replied, offering her the cookies. 'Makes me feel better.'

Quinn felt warmth swell inside of her at the gesture, and, though everything else was galvanising her desire to leave, to run away back to Cambodia, in this moment she felt deeply saddened that she would be leaving the little boy once more. Though everything else seemed to fall apart around her, Carlos always managed to stay constant.

'Thank you,' she murmured, accepting a cookie. He settled down onto the chair beside her, helping himself to a chocolate-chip cookie as well. She was quiet for a moment, feeling him watching her out of the corner of his dark eyes. 'Is your Auntie Rachel here?'

'She's still sleeping,' he nodded, watching as a soft expression crossed Quinn's face, an expression that he didn't quite understand.

'Good,' Quinn murmured, catching his eye again. 'She is going to need lots of hugs from you today, tiger. _Lots_ of hugs, okay?'

'Okay,' he nodded.

A frown settled between his brow as he contemplated her, unusually quiet. At his serious expression, Quinn raised an eyebrow.

'Are you okay, Carlos?' she asked after a moment, and he swallowed guiltily, his eyes jumping to hers. She recognised the flash of contrition and wondered what trouble he had managed to get himself into this time. He chewed on his lower lip, meeting her gaze.

'Would you forgive me…' he started carefully, 'if I did something bad?'

Quinn's eyes narrowed at the question.

'Is this something naughty that you've done, or something naughty that you're _planning_ on doing?' she asked suspiciously.

'It's just a question,' he replied briskly and she set the cookie down on the table, fixing him with a knowing look.

'Let me give you some advice, sweetheart,' she said, raising his chin with the tip of her finger so that their eyes were level. 'It is easier, by far, to not be bad in the first place, than it is to ask for forgiveness.'

He did not, however, look reassured by her words, and more than suspecting it, Quinn _knew_ that there was something more going on. She raised an eyebrow curiously.

'Would you like to tell me what you have done?' she asked. But he shook his head vehemently.

'Not yet,' he replied in a small voice. He looked away, his lips twitching uneasily. 'I just… I want us to still be friends when you find out.'

His aunt raised her chin a fraction, measuring him up with that serious look that always made him a little uncomfortable. She wasn't quite sure what to say.

'It depends what you have done, tiger,' she said finally, 'but as a general rule, everyone deserves to have a second chance. Everyone deserves a shot at forgiveness. People make mistakes, Carlos, for lots of different reasons, but they deserve the chance to put it right, to make things better again. So… I suppose what I am saying is that I may be angry with your actions, sweetheart, if you have been bad, but that won't stop me loving you. Nothing will ever stop me being your friend.'

He looked at her sceptically.

'You promise?'

She felt a twinge of apprehension, wondering intently what the boy could have possibly done to make him so anxious.

'I promise,' she replied solemnly.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

Santana recognised the lilting tone of voice before she could make out the words, and the relief that flooded her was intense. She hadn't realised quite how anxious she was until she knew that Quinn was sitting safely in her kitchen.

She leant back against the wall for a moment, closing her eyes.

'I am officially going insane,' she murmured to herself.

Ever since the firm had taken the Joe Waters case, she was seeing danger in every corner, and Quinn's five day unexplained disappearance over the previous weekend had compounded her unease. There was just _something_. Something that wasn't right. And she whilst she usually brushed away her uneasy feelings as a hangover from a childhood filled with various superstitions, this time it was different.

She stepped into the doorway, leaning against the frame to watch her son interact with the blonde. They had always gotten on surprisingly well, even when Carlos had been a difficult toddler – Auntie Quinn had been the best for playing games, Auntie Rachel for reading stories. Santana felt a pang of nostalgia for those days, only a few years ago.

'Good morning, San,' Quinn interrupted her thoughts, not looking over her shoulder but clearly aware of her presence. The Latina folded her arms across her chest.

'We need to talk,' she replied directly. The night before, when Q had run back into the building, she had been beyond pissed off... she had been worried. Terrified of what the blonde would end up doing, and more than that, of the danger she felt that Quinn was putting herself in. Now that the blonde had returned in one piece she fully intended on giving her a piece of her mind about the whole thing.

The blonde turned her head to the side, her profile highlighted by the morning light.

'Yeah, we do,' the doctor agreed tiredly. Santana's dark eyes traced the edges of her face.

'My study,' she stated, her tone clipped. 'Now.'

She didn't wait for the blonde to respond, simply turned and expected her to follow. She knew that Quinn would.

Carlos' eyes widened a little as he watched her leave the room; the study was a place that he was only summoned when he was in _big_ trouble.

'Is Mami mad at you?' he asked with concern.

_Yes_. Quinn gave him a half smile, ruffling his curls with one hand.

'I scared your Mami,' she explained, '…when I fell down the stairs.'

He nodded slowly, the worry from his eyes not easing.

'Don't worry, tiger,' Quinn tried to reassure him, 'it's only because she loves me that she is upset. We will work it out. Thanks for the cookie, Carlos. I suggest you put them away before your parents find out that you can reach their hiding place…'

And with some reluctance, Quinn followed Santana's path through the house to the Latina's study. More than anything, she had realised the night before that she could not continue this way. Too much had happened, too many tangles in the web that held her, suspended, above the precipice. It may be too little, too late, but in the early morning light she had looked at herself, really looked, and found little of herself that she liked anymore.

She took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she was certain was going to be a storm. Stepping into the study she closed the door softly behind her.

Santana stood by the window, her arms folded across her white shirt, expression grave. She turned at the sound of the door, her eyes widening as she took in the appearance of Quinn's bruised face.

'_Jesus!_ What happened?' she demanded, outraged, as she crossed the distance between them. She stopped mere inches from the blonde and reached up tentatively to examine the bruise, only to have the doctor flinch away. Her tone hardened. 'Quinn. What the _fuck happened?_'

The doctor sighed.

'I had a run in with Tom Meyer,' she admitted softly.

'Tom Meyer?' Santana echoed, '_Rachel's_ Tom?'

'Don't tell me that you are surprised,' Quinn tried to lighten the tone, but it had no effect. Santana was looking at her as though she was crazy, those dark eyes almost black. They were of a similar height, but at this proximity it was apparent that Santana, in her heeled work shoes, had the slight advantage.

'_You_ attacked Tom?' she asked, the words stony. _Someone smashed his beautiful face in_. Jasper's phrasing from the night before reverberated in her ears, and though in her bones she knew that Quinn was capable of many things, she had not imagined that she was capable of that. The hazel eyes were a swirl of mixed emotion and Santana had the uncommon urge to simply reach out and shake her.

'I went to talk to him…' Quinn responded.

'With your fists?' the Latina asked sarcastically, looking down at the blonde's bandaged hands. She was getting upset, and far too often with Santana, when she was upset it was translated as anger. 'Jesus Christ, Quinn. He is _twice_ your size. I have spent the last week scolding my son about fighting… and now you go and…'

Quinn rolled her eyes.

'I'm not an idiot, Santana,' she snapped, cutting off the rant that she knew was coming her way. 'I warned him to stay away from Rachel. That is _all_. And then I walked away… he attacked _me_ as I was leaving.'

Santana felt her heart speed. The purple and blue of the bruising around the blonde's eye, the dried blood on the bridge of her nose.

'He attacked you?'

'Is that so hard to believe, San?'

The lawyer exhaled sharply through her nose. It wasn't hard to believe, in fact, with the way that the blonde was looking at her, in that carefully open manner, she knew that she was telling her the truth. But the truth was ugly.

'I'll fucking kill that sonofabitch…' she growled.

'I'm fine, Santana,' Quinn tried to reassure her softly.

'No, you're lucky,' Santana snapped, her anger flaring once more, jabbing a finger at her friend. 'You are _stupid_… and you are _lucky_. He is twice your size, Quinn – he could have pulverised you. He could have… Jesus Christ. He could have…'

The Latina stepped back, unable to stay still. She began to pace around her study, gesturing wildly with her hands as she ranted in Spanish. She glanced over her shoulder at the stoic blonde, her fury rising.

'Sit down,' she ordered, pointing sharply to the chair in front of the desk. Quinn returned her gaze evenly, not making any move to follow the instruction. 'Sit your ass down!'

With the rising tension in the room, Quinn reluctantly complied, fully convinced that Santana was about to blow a fuse. She watched the angry Latina pace for a few more seconds before coming to a halt in front of her desk, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Quinn felt a surge of affection for her in that moment, for the woman that her best friend had become.

'Did you go to the police?'

'Of course not,' Quinn answered quietly, a self-mocking edge to her tone. 'He only got one good shot in anyway,' she said, gesturing to her face. 'He came up behind me – caught me by surprise. He held me up against the wall, and then… I'm not sure what happened. It was like a switch flipped. The next thing I knew we were on the floor of the corridor, tangled up and struggling, and I was hitting him as hard as I could… He hit me across the face, and I broke free. And I ran… That's it.'

Santana stared at her, though whether her stillness was from processing the words or from evaluating Quinn's expression, the blonde was not sure.

'You should never have run off…' the lawyer started, fury still written in every movement.

'San, I'm not a little child…' Quinn objected.

'No, you are a _stupid_ adult!' The Latina responded. 'You shouldn't have run off. I _knew_…. I just _knew_ that something like this would happen! You ran in there to confront him, with all his friends around him, and you didn't even think of the danger that you were putting yourself in… It was stupid, Quinn. Stupid and reckless and…'

'Santana,' the blonde's voice hardened. 'I don't want to argue with you…'

'We are not arguing,' the lawyer replied sharply, 'I am telling you off!'

At which the beginnings of a smile suddenly started to tug at the corners of Quinn's mouth, and it was all that she could do not to throw her head back and laugh. The love that she felt for the Latina seemed to swell within her, for the girl who had become a sister to her over the years. The woman in front of her now, as strong and fiery as she had been when they were children, at a time that Maribel Lopez had been the one scolding the two of them.

She held up her hands to pacify the brunette.

'I consider myself thoroughly chastised,' she stated, trying not to let amusement colour her tone as Santana glared at her, 'can we move on now please?'

And when Santana didn't move, Quinn slowly stood, taking the Latina's hands in her own.

'I'm sorry,' she said softly, making sure to meet the fierce dark eyes, 'I'm sorry that I worried you, San. I really am. You are right; it was reckless and it was stupid… but it was Rachel. He hurt Rachel. I'm never going to be able to stand by and let someone do that.'

The Latina's lips twitched.

'She's not your responsibility you know,' the Latina reminded her and the blonde nodded slowly.

'I know,' she acknowledged.

There was much more to be said, and yet nothing at all. Santana raised her chin a fraction.

'You're still on my shit-list,' the Latina hissed.

'As if I ever get off your shit-list,' Quinn rolled her eyes. She smiled affectionately at her best friend, feeling the time closing in on them again, she squeezed her hand. 'I'm going to miss you, San.'

The Latina pursed her lips, not quite sure that she was ready to get over her irritation. And more than that, not wanting to think about the blonde leaving again. The time had gone so fast, and as quickly as Quinn had tripped back into their lives, she would go again.

'You do a pretty good impression of your mother,' Quinn smirked.

And finally, Santana felt her lips twitch.

'Don't push your luck,' she warned, straightening her shirt. 'Or I'll start acting like her too.'

'Terrifying,' Quinn quipped, dancing out of reach as Santana stretched to smack her arm.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

'It's all over the press,' Fiona Allen, Rachel's publicist, stated, throwing an armful of magazines and papers down on the kitchen table before placing her hands on her hips. The brunette took a sip of her coffee. 'Well?! Look at them!'

The singer looked up at her wearily.

'I don't want to look at them,' she replied quietly, a response that drew only irritation from her publicist.

'The paparazzi are camped outside your apartment building. They are outside the theatre. They are _everywhere_… and all they want is a picture of that beautiful, bruised face of yours,' Fiona said stonily.

Rachel resolutely ignored her, her dark eyes focussed somewhere in the middle distance, a million thoughts swirling around her head, all of them a secret to the others within the room.

'Rachel, for godsake…'

'Stop it,' Jasper's sharp tone cut through the red-head's rant. 'Just leave her alone, Fiona.'

'Leave her alone? _Leave her alone?_' Her publicist's pitch was rising with each word. 'Her name is all over the news and they are hunting her like… like… I don't know, like an elk…'

Rachel quirked an eyebrow, surprised firstly by Jasper's intervention, and secondly by her publicist's analogy.

'I'm not an elk,' she objected.

'If I leave her alone then they will rip her apart,' Fiona stated acidly, her sharp blue eyes cutting into the photographer who was observing her coolly over his breakfast. He looked unimpressed by her temper, reaching across the table to pick up the maple syrup.

'Well, they are not here right now,' he replied steadily, 'so chill out. She doesn't need your shit on top of everything else.'

'Language,' Brittany scolded, cuffing the photographer on the back of the head as she walked past him back to the pancake pan she had been tending on the stove. 'Young ears.'

'He's playing in the sitting room,' Jasper objected, rubbing at the back of his head and shooting her a hurt look. Out of all of them, Brittany was usually the one that he got on well with; she was the only one of Quinn's close friends that really liked him.

'Carlos hears _everything_,' Brittany replied knowingly.

Rachel brushed her dark hair back, out of her eyes. She wore no make-up this morning, dressed simply in one of Brittany's old dance sweatshirts and a pair of sweatpants. She had wanted nothing more than to bury herself under the covers and go back to sleep; last night seemed like a bad dream.

'Sit down, Fi,' she said wearily, meeting the impenetrable blue gaze, 'have a cup of coffee… and a muffin, or… something.'

'_Only_ if you start taking this seriously, Rachel,' Fiona replied intently. 'It's not a joke.'

Rachel bristled, her eyes hardening.

'I _am_ taking this seriously,' she replied icily. 'This is my face… my relationship, my _life_, that we are talking about. Now _sit down_.'

Surprised by her tone, the publicist reluctantly pulled out a chair and sat down, reaching across the table for a blueberry muffin.

'Good girl,' Jasper quipped, shooting Fi a smug look to which she returned a glare.

Rachel took another sip of the Americano, ignoring them both and reluctantly pulling the top of the magazines towards her before flicking to the relevant page. A montage of images of Tom's face were spread across the two page spread, and despite the poor quality of the images it was clear that someone had laid some serious damage to his face. She swallowed uncomfortably.

'Do we know who did this?' she asked solemnly.

'Read the article,' Fiona suggested ominously.

'You're full of helpful answers, aren't you?' Jasper commented through a mouthful of pancake.

Rachel sighed.

'…_trouble in paradise for the golden couple of Broadway_…' she skimmed through the article, '…_in the early hours of this morning, Hollywood action star Tom Meyer allegedly assaulted his current girlfriend, Rachel Berry, at the Spotlight Charity Gala held at the St Regis Hotel Ballroom. Meyer met the rising Broadway starlet last year during his guest run as Marius for the highly acclaimed Les Miserables revival. The public assault reportedly left Rachel Berry unconscious_…'

She shook her head incredulously.

'I was not unconscious…' she objected.

'Actually,' Jasper cut her off, 'you were. I carried you to the bathroom.'

'…and he did not assault me.'

Jasper raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.

'You struggled with him,' he stated bluntly, 'and then he slapped you so hard that you fell onto the floor, hit your head and passed out. That is not just criminal assault, it is battery. You should have filed a complaint with the police, Rachel... Don't make light of what he did.'

Again she was surprised by his words, by the protective edge to his tone of voice. They had never been friends, never warmed to each other, but for the first time in all the years that she had known him, Rachel was starting to see a hint of the man that Quinn had become so fond of. She swallowed the words that had been on the tip of her tongue. She didn't mean to try to belittle it… it was just that she was embarrassed by it. It didn't make sense, not really, but she was. She was embarrassed by the whole thing.

'Read on,' Fiona advised.

Brittany pulled the magazine towards her as she sat down, placing a plate of pancakes in front of the singer and shooting her a look.

'You – eat. I'll read,' she said in a no-nonsense tone, sipping on her orange juice as she skimmed the article to where Rachel had left off. Jasper smirked at their interaction.

'…_following the assault, which was witnessed by a number of bystanders, Ms Berry was taken from the scene for medical aid. She left the venue soon after and has been unavailable for comment_.'

Rachel rolled her eyes at the phrasing.

_'Unavailable?_ My ass,' Fiona snarled, pouring herself a cup of coffee. 'They just can't find you...'

'_Mr Meyer, who publically continued to participate in the celebrations with his entourage, was later observed leaving the venue having suffered severe facial injuries. No attack on his person was witnessed or reported from within the St Regis Hotel, and his public spokesman has declined comment_.' Brittany paused, taking a sip of her orange juice before continuing. '_While no complaint has been filed by the Hollywood star for what appears to be a serious physical attack, speculation has been circulating over the identity of Rachel Berry's mysterious Angel of Vengeance…_'

'Angel of Vengeance?' Rachel echoed incredulously.

'Isn't that more _Phantom of the Opera_ than _Les Miserables_?' Jasper asked. Fiona rolled her eyes.

'I thought it was an _Angel of Darkness_ in Phantom…' Brittany replied.

'That's not the point,' the publicist stated acidly, 'the point is that you are now stuck in the middle of an assault scandal. A big, fat, juicy scandal... We need an angle...'

'We _don't_ need an angle,' Rachel disagreed firmly. 'I called my understudy first thing; she is doing my shows for the next week.'

'And the apartment?' Fi pressed. 'They are going to be hounding you until you give them something.'

'She can stay here,' Brittany supplied, turning to the brunette, 'you're always welcome to the guestroom, you know that.'

The singer managed a small smile at her old friend, finding her hand beneath the table top to squeeze it gratefully.

'And your _Angel of Vengeance?_' Fiona asked with a hint of sarcasm, 'any clue as to his identity?'

Rachel shrugged a shoulder.

'It's nothing to do with me,' she replied, 'it sounds like it all happened after we left and… well, it could be anyone. Tom always gets a bit aggressive when he uses…'

She trailed off, realising that she had said too much. Jasper had stopped mid-bite and was looking at her with surprise.

'When he uses what?' the photographer asked, putting two and two together quickly. 'Coke? _Cocaine?_'

She was distracted from answering as Carlos suddenly appeared, almost knocking her off her chair as he attacked her with a full-speed hug.

'Auntie Rach! Auntie Rach! Auntie Rach!'

Fiona raised an eyebrow, less than thrilled by the arrival of the seven year old.

'The monster appears,' she murmured dryly to herself. Jasper snorted, glancing at her.

'Finally something that we can agree on.'

When Carlos pulled back his young eyes filled with concern. He reached up a gentle hand to the bruising across her cheek.

'Hey, sweetheart,' she smiled at him. 'I…'

'Did you fall down the stairs too?' he cut her off with the question. Rachel frowned, the words drying up on the tip of her tongue.

'What?' she asked, confused.

'Auntie Quinn has bruises too,' he said matter-of-factly. 'She fell down the stairs…'

And in that moment, Rachel's blood turned icy. She met Jasper's eyes from across the room and, for a second, they understood each other perfectly. The singer stood up abruptly, disentangling herself from the young boy.

'Where is she?' she demanded.

Carlos looked up at her, surprised by the abrupt change in tone.

'Where _is_ she, Carlos?'

'With Mami,' he replied quickly, always a little cautious of his Aunt's no-nonsense voice, 'in her study…'

And Rachel was out of the door of the kitchen before he could blink. Silence enveloped the kitchen in the seconds after her departure, all three of the adults staring at the empty doorway through which the singer had disappeared.

'Shit,' Jasper breathed, flinching to the side as Brittany glared at him for the expletive. Carlos looked back, a little hopelessly, at his mother. It seemed that Auntie Q was getting in trouble with everyone today.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

Rachel slammed the door behind her, looking between the two women, who, by the way that they were sitting, reminded her acutely of their teenage selves. The blonde and the brunette leant against the other side of the desk, side by side, looking out the large bay window at the stormy landscape beyond.

'Look at me,' she demanded, her voice firm. Quinn's movements froze. Santana glanced over her shoulder, surprise written on her face.

'Turn around and look me in the eye, Quinn.'

Slowly, the blonde stood, turning to face the singer.

'Before you waste your breath,' she started softly, 'I've already been chewed out by Santana about this…'

Rachel's breath caught. The purple bruising ugly against the pale skin, a dark and muddied shadow that spoke of far more than violence. The fury that ignited within the brunette was fierce, much more potent than any anger she had felt for herself. Her skin turned cold in the way that it did when she was feverish.

'_He_ did this to you?' she hissed through gritted teeth. But Quinn made no move to respond, standing awkwardly before her, embarrassed by the bruising across her face. Santana looked between them, the uneasy atmosphere that was settling in the room. She glanced briefly at the work she had left on her desk and cursed herself for saying that she would work from home today. The tension in the room was thick and she felt that she had no part in it.

'I think I should be going,' the lawyer murmured, stepping swiftly out to escape the room. But Rachel caught her arm, her chocolate eyes fiery.

'No – you stay right here,' she ordered, glaring at the Latina, her grip on her arm not relinquishing, '_you_ let her go back. _You_ let her go back in there.'

Santana pulled herself out of the singer's surprisingly strong grasp.

'I didn't have much choice in the matter,' she started to defend herself.

'She didn't have _any_ choice in the matter,' Quinn spoke up, drawing the angry gaze back to her, 'it's not Santana's fault.'

Rachel looked between the two of them, her hands finding their way to her hips.

'No?' she asked furiously, '_no?!_ She is meant to be your best friend. She is meant to stop you doing _stupid things_…'

'No one can stop Quinn from doing stupid things,' Santana replied, rolling her eyes at the blonde who shot her a dirty look. Quinn seemed to reach out to the singer before holding herself back, the frown etching a line between her brows.

'I know you are angry with me,' the blonde acknowledged softly, addressing Rachel with a serious look, 'but you are being irrational, Rach. You can be angry with me if you want to – but don't take it out on Santana.'

The tension in the atmosphere between them seemed to peak and wane, and so much was said between their eyes that could not be translated to words. Not for the first time, Santana felt an intense surge of regret, for the two who she had always felt could balance each other perfectly. She took the opportunity to slip through the door and out of the room. She didn't want to witness yet another train crash.

Silently, Rachel took a cautious step forward, followed by another that brought her directly in front of the blonde. The distress seemed to be warring in her eyes, and Quinn appeared entranced by her movements. The brunette reached up to gently trace the marks, watching as the blonde's eyes fluttered shut. She took in the watercolour of blue and purple hues that stained the canvas of pale skin.

'Does it hurt?' Rachel's voice was as tight as an overwound violin string.

Quinn's heart tripped within her chest, that familiar vanilla scent of the woman stirring emotions long since buried within. The distance was too close. The memory of her too potent.

'Not anymore,' she replied quietly, catching Rachel's hand in her own as she reached out to touch the bruised skin. The chocolate brown met hazel, and Rachel's heart began to speed.

'You stupid girl,' Rachel breathed. But more than anger, it was the worry that dominated her tone.

Quinn exhaled sharply, her gaze not softening in the slightest.

'I'm starting to get fed up with people calling me that,' she replied.

'Then maybe you shouldn't do stupid things,' Rachel murmured, only to have her hands caught within the blonde's grip. She felt her heart race as they stood together; she felt herself encircled by the blonde's presence.

'You don't get it,' Quinn replied lowly, their faces inches away. 'You don't _get it_, Rachel. He hurt you… so he hurt me. I couldn't stand by and let him get away with it.'

Rachel pulled her hands from the blonde's grip, letting them drop to her side without stepping out of the doctor's presence.

'You infuriate me,' she said harshly.

'And you infuriate _me_,' Quinn replied, the irritation coming back, with the dark feelings that the night before had stoked. 'Cocaine? _Cocaine?_'

The large doe eyes blinked back at her, flooded suddenly with apprehension.

'What the hell has happened to you, Rachel?'

The blunt accusation struck her to the core; a strange shame that raised the hairs across her skin. Quinn's gaze remained steady, daring her to step away.

'I…' Rachel started, but the words dried up on the tip of her tongue. The blonde waited; expectation bright within those large hazel eyes.

'You _what?_' the blonde asked quietly.

'I don't owe you an explanation.'

Quinn finally stepped back, seeming to deflate as she sat down on the edge of the desk.

'Don't you think that you owe one to yourself?' she asked, her tone softening. It truly saddened her, the changes that had occurred to bring them to this point, the distance between the people that they had once been. 'The girl I knew… the girl I knew would never even _think_ of touching coke…'

Rachel's jaw tightened.

'I'm not the person that I used to be,' she replied pointedly, her eyes revealing more distress than her words. 'Don't preach to me about right and wrong, Quinn…'

'I'm not,' the blonde objected.

'I can see it in your eyes,' Rachel responded, shaking her head. 'You don't understand. You don't understand what happened – what happened to me when you left…' She cut herself off from whatever it was that she was going to say. 'Nothing is black and white. Nothing is simple.'

The look that Quinn gave her revealed nothing of her thoughts but Rachel turned away from her anyway, stepping instead towards the window. Despite the distance that had grown between them, Quinn still knew her almost as well as she knew herself. She could make out her half-reflection in the glass, looking back at her with dark eyes and ashen skin. The world beyond the glass, cold and damp and miserable.

'I don't use it often…' she stated quietly, talking more to herself than to Quinn, 'hardly at all, really. It's just this life. This _life_, Quinn. It is everything and nothing like how I expected it to be.'

'Fame?' the blonde asked.

'All of it,' Rachel replied. 'They want a piece of you at every turn. And no matter how much you give, they want more… I don't need it. The cocaine. I never looked for it… it found me. It's not something that I need…'

'Then why poison yourself with it?' the blonde's voice was filled with an earnestness that struck a chord of regret deep within her. It was an innocence that she no longer associated with the doctor. 'You're so beautiful… so talented, Rachel. Don't ruin it with drugs.'

The brunette felt a sad smile tug at the corners of her mouth. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes filled with all the sadness that had been gathering within her. Beyond the window, the sun was starting to cut through the darkness of the clouds. Just flashes of light, enough to remind her that it was there.

'Look at us,' she murmured, shaking her head, 'you and I. Bruised and battered… broken. How did we get here, Quinn? There was once so much… promise, between us.'

The doctor's faint smile reflected her own, a smile that reflected a host of regrets.

'We have to live with the choices that we made,' she stated, and Rachel felt the chill of the words run up her spine. 'We have to live with those decisions.'

The brunette turned back towards the window, a cold certainty hardening within her. Stuck, as she had been, between two extremes had been tearing her apart. The desire to be with the blonde, that desire was always so potent, so intoxicating. She was starting to realise that it always would be. And yet, at the other extreme, she had begun to realise that she wanted nothing more than to move on; to forget the past, to forget Quinn Fabray and start to live again.

'I don't want you to contact me,' she said finally, her eyes on the grey storm clouds beyond the window pane. She wrapped her arms around herself, biting down on the inside of her cheek to gain some control over the tumultuous feelings that were churning within her. It was the last thing she needed at a time when she simply needed to be strong. 'I don't want you to contact me anymore, Quinn. Don't send me flowers… no more lilies. No more messages… Nothing. Please. It's… too hard.'

The silence behind her was deafening, and she didn't have the strength to turn around. Didn't want to meet those hazel eyes and see the pain reflected from her own.

'I leave tomorrow,' the blonde finally said, her voice tight and Rachel felt her own throat start to constrict.

'I know,' she acknowledged.

She could feel the doctor's eyes on her, the heat of that gaze on her back. There was so much to be said between them, but it was too late. Rachel knew that, she knew that now. It was said that time would heal even the deepest of wounds; and now, in the spring of another new year, Rachel felt that it was time for her to start healing, to leave it all behind. If she couldn't have her, if she couldn't be with her… then all she wanted to do was forget her.

In the half reflection of the window pane Rachel could make out the blonde as she approached, stopping behind her, beautiful features blurred in the glass. She stood there, silent, for a long moment. And Rachel wondered whether she was also looking out of the window, looking into the stormy sky, or at their blurred reflection. Quinn breathed in, her eyes closing as she inhaled that familiar vanilla scent, her throat choked with everything that she could not express.

She wanted to speak. To find the words to tell the brunette that she wished her well, that she wished her love and happiness and success… and everything else. But in the end, they turned to ash in her mouth. And just as she had the night before, in the rain, standing before the ER entrance, Quinn felt the potent stab of regret at all that had happened, at all that she wished she could have done differently.

Any words that she wanted to say seemed empty now. She reached out, the her fingertips barely brushing the dark hair, as though she was reaching through time, pulling herself back to those days that seemed so carefree and hopeful.

_You're all that I need. _

The words struck her hard, an echo that wouldn't die away.

'Good bye, Rachel,' she whispered, so softly that the brunette thought that she had imagined it. And the reflection turned away, walking out of the room... walking out of her life. And, as much as Rachel knew that it was right, as much as she wanted to move on, the finality of it felt crushingly wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Please review.<strong>


	18. A mess of motivation

A/N: Happy new year. Thank you for all the reviews for the last chapter, I really do appreciate your thoughts on this story – I'm sorry that this one has taken a little longer. But I can assure you that this tale is far from over yet.

Chapter 18 - A mess of motivations

**Present. New York. **

Carlos hovered nervously in the doorway to the kitchen, watching his Auntie Rachel as she stared solemnly out of the large glass doors to the patio. She looked pale in the morning light, as though the colour had drained from her, quite unlike the bubbly personality that he was used to. Sheets of paper were crumpled around the table and she sat, pen in hand, as still as a marble statue. Anxiety twisted in his belly, not just from the guilt that was writhing like a snake in his belly, but also from the unfamiliarity of the serious look upon her face. It was a window into the adult world that he was not yet part of.

'What are you doing?' he asked curiously.

She started in surprise, her expression softening as she turned to him. Today was the last day of his suspension from school and, as she was essentially housebound until the Tom scandal blew over, she had volunteered to babysit him.

'Just… thinking,' she smiled in a way that didn't reach her dark eyes, 'writing.'

He edged into the room, chewing on his lower lip.

'Writing what?' he asked.

'Songs… poetry… thoughts,' she answered absently, though the massacre of paper around her suggested more turmoil than her attitude suggested. She set down the heavy pen on the pad of writing paper. 'Are you okay, sweetheart?'

He was uncharacteristically subdued today. It didn't take a genius to realise that Quinn's imminent departure had drastically affected the little troublemaker's mood. Earlier in the morning Rachel had heard them; heard the blonde arrive and sweep into the house with that unselfconscious warmth that had never quite been extinguished by what life had thrown at her. It had struck Rachel at that moment how some things persist despite the passage of time. Though part of her had wanted to step back into the guestroom, keep the distance that she needed, a greater part of her could not move away, and instead, Rachel stood, partially hidden, at the top of the stairs, listening to the young doctor say her farewells. When the door finally shut behind her, Rachel had released the breath that she had been holding in anticipation of the sound. It was over. Quinn was gone again.

Carlos shrugged one small shoulder, still chewing his bottom lip.

'Are you okay?' He echoed back to her, concern written in every nuance of his expression. She opened her arms to him and he happily stepped into the embrace, his arms tightening around her neck.

'I will be,' she promised, whispering the words into his dark curly hair, 'we all will be.'

* * *

><p><strong>Cambodia. 2023.<strong>

_Brittany rested her chin on her hands, looking out into the rain. It fell in sheets over the city; turning the roads to thick rivers of mud as it cut through the heat of the day. Jay's bar, opposite the hospital, was empty but for a pair of tourists sheltering from the unexpected downpour, their heads close together like lovers._

_It had been only a couple of days since the child's death in her arms and Brittany felt as though a grenade had detonated within her. The extent of the devastation was unmappable; she was trying to account for lost limbs, lost thought and feeling, trying to figure out where she began, where she ended and the new mess that lay in between. As surely as she knew the certainties of night and of day, Brittany knew that she would never be the same again, that the child had taken something from her, that every word from her lips in the lullabies that she had sung had tangled together with his life and when he died, linked her to him. The devastation of it was somehow both blunted and intense, the edges raw and bleeding still. _

_Lost in thought, she did not see the older man as he dashed in from the rain, shaking off his light jacket as he approached her. She was surprised when he settled down in the wicker chair next to hers, setting two cool beers on the table beside her and flicking the rainwater from his salt and pepper hair. _

'_I…' she started, so caught in her thoughts that she struggled to find words to speak. He gave her a half-amused look, grey eyes sparkling. _

'_Fabray thought that you would be here,' he interrupted, a French accent rolling each of the 'r's in the words, 'I was meant to meet with her but she is busy with a patient. You are Madame Pierce, non?'_

'_Brittany,' she corrected him. _

'_Then you can call me Francois,' he instructed, frowning out into the rain. He was a striking man, with the kind of bone structure that ages well and the lines of age that add distinction rather than weariness. 'Goddamn rain turns everything to shit, non? In France, when it rains like this, we say that it is "raining like a pissing cow". You use this expression in America too?'_

_Brittany smiled despite her dour mood. _

'_No,' she replied, 'we just say that it is raining.'_

'_No imagination,' he teased, clicking his tongue. _

'_You know Quinn?' she asked, distracted from the rain enough to face her unexpected companion._

_He scoffed. _

'_Know her?' he snorted, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his pocket before tapping one out. 'Trust me, she is hard to ignore in this part of the world. It is like… how would you say? Trying to ignore a hurricane?'_

'_A hurricane?' Brittany echoed slightly incredulously. _

'_A force of nature,' he elaborated mockingly, 'not to be reasoned with or deterred…'_

_He leant down to strike a match against the rough floor, sucking on the cigarette as he held the flame carefully to the end. Brittany watched him curiously, uncertain whether to be offended for her friend or not. He caught her gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at her. _

'_Do not misunderstand me,' Francois said finally, releasing a plume of smoke into the air, 'Quinn is a dear friend, truly. I have the utmost respect for her and for the work that she has done. There are few with the willpower to achieve what she has achieved with establishing that hospital… Nous chose well when he picked her to work on his vision with him.'_

_There was something about the way that he spoke that piqued Brittany's curiosity, as though his words were scratching at the surface of a much deeper ideal. As though there was something more that he was offering her, an understanding, perhaps, that she would never have appreciated before. _

'_You live in Phnom Penh?' she probed. _

_His grey eyes evaluated her for a moment, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. _

'_I have done for many years now,' Francois replied. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, breathing the smoke out towards the rain in contemplation. 'As a young man I was a trader in Paris, a cut-throat arrogant bastard. I owned an apartment en Le Marais, worked hard and played harder; I lived a decadent life, Brittany… without limitation. I am not proud of it now. I had everything I could want for; money, beautiful women, power and the world open before me… but I was hollow. You see, the years of indulgence did not make me happy. They could not make me happy.'_

_She listened with rapt attention, the soft accent of his voice entrancing her. _

'_What brought you here?' she asked gently, and he was silent for a long minute. Looking out into the rain as she had done earlier, searching inwardly instead. _

'_When I turned thirty-five I met an old man, a New York Times reporter, at some fundraiser event. His name was Kamm. Henry Kamm. He wouldn't shut up about some book that he was writing about this little South-East Asian country that had torn itself apart, about the utter devastation of it. I sat next to him all night, cursing him. But for weeks afterwards I couldn't get his words out of my head. They haunted me, in both waking and dreaming… Six months later, I had given everything up to move here. I joined the Cambodian branch of UNICEF and have worked for them since.'_

_He tapped his ash into an empty glass on the table between them, grey eyes flicking up to hers._

'_It gets under your skin, Cambodia does,' he said quietly. 'The people, the colours; the sights and the sounds and the smells. It is a place that can only be experienced, and lived…' _

_There was an understanding in his eyes that struck her hard in that moment, as though clicking it into place. _

'_Quinn told you about the boy,' Brittany surmised, 'about the little boy that died.'_

'_She told me that you sang to him through the night…' Francois answered, 'that you held him, comforted him. She feels guilty for exposing you to this, for letting you close and hurting you…'_

'_Quinn hasn't hurt me,' Brittany objected, trying to find the words that had been tugging at her thoughts, 'but I am angry. I am angry at her because I can't be angry with myself. I lost something, that night; an innocence… she opened a door for me that can never, now, be closed. I have never seen death before, nor experienced loss. I have lived my life so… carelessly. So freely. So ignorantly happy. I have never known sadness like this; it is so unyielding that it hurts with every breath… I'm afraid that I will never be the same person again, not after that.'_

_Tears stung once more at her eyes, tracking silently down her cheeks, the emotion rising up to choke her as she turned away from him to look back out into the rain._

'_You won't be,' he replied gently, 'not after experiencing what you have experienced. You are set apart now. You have discovered something fundamental; love, compassion. You will never be the same, because you will carry it with you.' _

_She wrapped her arms about herself, trying to absorb his words, trying to formulate her own thoughts._

'_I told Quinn that I came here to make a documentary about the country – about Cambodia,' she admitted quietly, 'but in truth, I didn't know the first thing about this country… I didn't care. I came here to take her back, to persuade her to come home again… to be part of our family again.'_

_Francois watched her closely, his cigarette turning to a column of ash._

'_But with every day that passes, I just see more reasons for her to stay,' Brittany continued, 'that hospital… that hospital is so much more than a hospital. It is a community, a family... They need her here… she needs to be here.'_

_He raised his chin a fraction._

'_You realise that it is not for her medical training that they need her,' he said carefully, 'though obviously we need good doctors. It is for her idealism, Brittany… her vision, her inspiration. There are a handful of people in this world who will see what is wrong and try to put it right… who will fight for a better world. I can see the same flicker of a flame in you as I saw in her…'_

_The blonde met his eyes. _

'_I cannot run away and build a hospital… I'm not Quinn. I can't help people the way that she does…'_

'_You don't have to help them the way that she does…' he leant back in his chair, picking his words carefully, 'I must confess that when Quinn told me you were coming, and what you were planning to do, I researched you, Brittany, I watched your documentaries…you have the skills to reach the world, the talent to make them listen… Do you think that your words can change a nation? This nation?'_

_She felt a tingling in her fingertips as he spoke, the hairs rising across her skin._

'_You make a living from what you get, Brittany,' he said quietly, 'you make a life from what you give.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

Brittany tapped her fingernails against the hot glass of her tea, the staccato rhythm of her nervous heart. Her mind drifted, through half-forgotten memories and dreams mixed together, the stills of a documentary, the pictures forever fixed in her mind.

'Hey B,' Quinn's voice was clipped with haste as she slid into the chair opposite, a whirlwind of scarf and coat and messy blonde hair. Careful make up did little to disguise the underlying bruising around her eye and, not for the first time, Brittany felt her heart ache for her, for both of them. 'I can't stay long… I need see Jasper and pack and get to the airport and I am already running late…'

'I know,' Brittany cut her off, resting her forearms on the edge of the table, 'I'm sorry to call you like this. But there is something that I needed to tell you. Something that I have been meaning to tell you since you arrived…'

The hazel eyes flicked to hers, a mixture of concern and apprehension swirling together.

'It won't take long,' Brittany continued, praying that the blonde would understand. As she spoke her eyes caught the red string that was tied carefully around the blonde's narrow wrist, her heart twisting as she saw it. Santana had grown up with a myriad of superstitions passed on to her from her mother, silly things that she rolled her eyes at and yet followed religiously. When Carlos had been small she had insisted on rolling an egg over him to ward off the evil eye, and now, if ever the family needed protection she would tie the red string around their wrists, as she had done with Quinn. It was a symbol of Santana's love more than anything else, and from the woman who expressed her love so abstractly, it was infinitely precious. 'I just… I can't let you leave without telling you.'

Quinn raised her chin a fraction.

'Okay…'

'What happened in Cambodia last year… when I visited you…' Brittany started, trying to find the words that were eluding her now, 'what happened in Cambodia changed me… it really changed me, Quinn. Irreversibly.'

'I'm sorry…'

'Don't be,' Brittany shook her head, 'please _don't_ be sorry. It gave me purpose. A real purpose, like I have never had in my life before. When I came back, I felt haunted by it, by the world that you had shown me… I cut through all the footage that I had gathered, and I made a film. A documentary.'

Quinn blinked in surprise. This was certainly not the revelation that she had been expecting.

'A documentary?' she asked, eyebrows rising, 'I thought that the idea of a Cambodian documentary was scrapped by the studio?'

'It was,' Brittany acknowledged carefully, 'until they saw it… When they saw it, they snapped it up. They loved it... It will be released in six weeks.'

The smile that split the doctor's face was nothing less than thrilled.

'That's fantastic!' she exclaimed, her voice full of joy and excitement, 'really fantastic B! Well done! Is this the big secret that you have been keeping from me?! A documentary? Seriously?'

The response was so unlike what Brittany had been expecting, that she sat in silence for a moment, wondering what she had intended to do next. She allowed herself an awkward smile as Quinn gushed enthusiastically.

'I just need to ask you a favour,' she said finally, reaching into her bag for the documents.

'A favour?' Quinn echoed as Brittany placed the documents in front of her, a small frown line etching itself between her eyebrows.

'They are disclaimer forms,' Brittany explained, 'so that your image can appear…'

'_My_ image?'

'In the documentary,' Brittany elaborated.

The smile faded from Quinn's face as surely as a cloud passing across the sun. A hint of reluctance, and something else, something darker in her eyes.

'I'm sorry, B, I… I can't sign these.'

'You can't?'

'No, I… we've talked about this,' Quinn tried to explain, feeling worse with every word as she saw the hope fade from Brittany's blue eyes, 'we talked about this before… I can't be in your footage. I can't be in your films. I can't be...'

'Why not?' Brittany probed, the feeling of dread intensifying in her belly.

'I just can't be,' Quinn replied, 'I'm really sorry, B. I just… I can't be. I'm sure it will be just as impressive with me edited out.'

'Quinn…' she started again, only to get cut off.

'No,' the doctor replied, her hazel eyes intense. 'Just… _no_. I can't be in it. I'm sorry, I really am, but that is the end of it.'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

The court room was as full as Santana had ever seen it, but for the first time in her career as a lawyer she felt a twisting of apprehension as she looked back at the rows of men who had filed sombrely in behind them. For a bail hearing it was unusual to have such a presence, and she had no doubt as to who they were, hard lines etched onto hard faces. She shivered.

'…the Honorable Judge Ashley presiding. All rise please.'

Santana stood in unison with the rest of the associates as the judge, a smallish man who was losing his hair on the top of his head, swept into the room. He looked wearily across the courtroom before settling himself down, waving at them dismissively with one hand.

'Did you bring your whole firm with you Ms Stanton-Lee?' Judge Ashley asked Kimberly blithely. Certainly the turnout was impressive from their side, with more associates in attendance than was necessary. Santana was pleased with the volume of them, particularly as she wished to keep as great a distance as possible from the defendant.

'Just a selection, your honour,' Kimberly replied dryly.

As the court proceeded, Santana felt her mind wandering, that same sickening apprehension twisting within her. Her eyes were drawn to him, to Joe Waters, and to his hands as they rested on the desk before them. Hands that had killed ruthlessly.

He was a powerfully built man, broad and strong. She had seen pictures of him, of course, in the papers and on the internet. His face had been splashed around everywhere when he was arrested a year ago for the brutal murder of his criminal partner, Daniel Holbrook, yet in person he had a quality that the photographs had failed to catch; a sharp edge of alertness almost, that held him absolutely still, like a hunter. His dark eyes flicked to hers and Santana held her breath as she met the gaze. The corners of his thin lips curled. He was a predator, she had no doubt. A natural-born killer.

She was lost in her thoughts until the associate on her left nudged her, and Santana quickly stood with the rest of them in anticipation of the decision. The judge looked dispassionately out at them, firstly at the lawyers and then at the rows and rows of men behind, the black suits and the burning eyes.

'Bail is set at one million dollars,' the judge stated, and Santana couldn't help her own gasp of surprise, of protest. 'On the condition that Mr Waters remains tagged under house arrest.'

The gavel fell.

'Holy shit,' the associate beside her murmured. Santana shook her head, before glancing back at the sea of dark suited men. _Bribery_, she thought as she looked at them, _or something much, much worse_. Men like this always got what they wanted. Even from the law.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

'_Where is he?_' Quinn demanded as soon as the door was opened. The engine of herrental in the driveway still running and the front door open. Rachel blinked in surprise, as the blonde pushed past her into the house.

'_Carlos!_' Quinn shouted, her voice tight. 'Carlos Lopez-_Pierce!_ Get your _ass_ out here now!_'_

The singer watched her, perplexed, as she ran from room to room. The fury was rolling off her in waves, and Rachel felt apprehension creep over her.

'Quinn?' she asked, utterly confused.

'I'm _serious_, young man!' The normally relaxed blonde ran up the stairs two at a time and Rachel was quick to follow.

Quinn pushed open the door to his bedroom, taking the boy by the arm and hauling him up non-too-gently to stand in front of her. He blinked at her with his large, dark eyes, his guilt palpable in the atmosphere around them.

'Where is it?' she demanded through gritted teeth.

Carlos looked at her, both surprised and shocked, his mouth opening, but no words emerging. It was very, very rare to see his Auntie Q so angry. So rare, in fact, that each occasion she had been angry with him was clear in his memory. The first time was when he had run off whilst at Auntie Rachel's theatre and had hidden within the props department. The second time was when he had stolen the sharp scissors in kindergarten and cut off Mary Wright's pigtails when his mothers were away. Usually, when most adults would be angry, Auntie Q would sit down and talk to him, help him talk through how he felt. In this very moment she was not the aunt that he knew. This was the woman who yelled at the man who had lost him in the theatre, he remembered it clearly because the man was huge but had cowered during the verbal tongue-lashing. Carlos swallowed.

'_Where is it?_' she repeated, enunciating every syllable perfectly. Rachel marched into the room.

'Quinn,' she objected, stepping between Carlos and his furious aunt, 'stop it. You're scaring him…'

'Good,' the blonde's eyes flashed, 'because if he doesn't tell me where it is in the next _five seconds_, I am going to hang him upside down by his toenails…'

'Where _what_ is?' Rachel demanded.

'My _passport_,' the blonde hissed.

The singer rolled her eyes as she folded her arms across her chest.

'Quinn Fabray,' she said rationally, 'he is seven years old… he hasn't taken your passport. He doesn't even know what a passport _is_.'

The blonde ignored her, bending down to be level with the boy.

'I am giving you to the count of five, Carlos,' she said seriously, in a voice that was deadly quiet, 'to tell me where it is. And trust me, you do not want me to reach "five"…'

The boy's eyes widened.

'One…' Quinn started, staring at him unblinkingly. '…two….. three….'

'In the fire,' he whispered.

Rachel's eyes widened incredulously, certain that she hadn't heard him correctly.

'_What?_' the brunette demanded in a hushed voice.

'It's in the fire,' he said quickly. 'I put it in the fire. I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. I… I put it in the fire.'

Quinn exhaled shakily, her heart thumping hard within her chest. The terrible reality of it crashing down on top of her. She turned on her heal and ran from the room, down the stairs so fast that her feet barely touched the steps.

Rachel stared at the young boy with horror, ignoring the blonde as she fled the room.

'You _stole_ her passport?' she asked incredulously.

Carlos looked up at her with his wide eyes starting to fill with tears and Rachel shook her head, unable to process it. She knew that Carlos was a handful but this crossed a line. She genuinely couldn't believe it.

'I didn't want her to go,' he admitted quietly, trembling from his tears, 'she belongs here. She belongs here, with us.'

* * *

><p>When Rachel stepped into the sitting room, the blonde was sitting on the carpeted floor, her hands covered in dusty grey ash. Rachel's mouth was dry, so dry that she didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything at all, just watched as the blonde stared at the remnants of a biometric passport in her hands, the melted plastic deformed beyond recognition. The implications of it were clear.<p>

'You can fast track another,' Rachel said finally.

The blonde swallowed, shaking her head.

'Not fast enough,' she replied. The silence that followed her words grew pregnant.

As Rachel watched her, helplessly, the little boy appeared tentatively at her side, his cheeks wet from tears.

'Auntie Q?' he asked hesitantly, stepping through the doorway.

'Go to your room, Carlos,' Quinn replied, her voice raw, not bothering to turn around to look at him.

He opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking up at his Aunt Rachel for guidance. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her eyes still focused only on the blonde and all the grey ash around her.

'You said we would still be friends,' Carlos whispered, a hint of desperation in his voice. But Quinn didn't turn. Just dropped the remains of the passport back into the grate and dropped her head into her ash-covered hands.

'Please,' she said, the words tight, 'just go to your room.'

And when Carlos looked up at her again, Rachel squeezed his shoulder, nodding meaningfully towards the door.

'Come on, sweetheart,' she murmured, ushering him out to leave the doctor alone.

It was not long after Rachel taken the boy back upstairs, that she heard the front door close again. That repetitive final sound.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading, please review.<strong>


	19. The darkest hours

A/N: So many thanks to everyone who reviews this fic – I really am grateful to everyone who is reading it. I know that it is frustrating, but it is slowly getting there. This chapter should answer many of the questions previously posed, and the next couple should answer even more. Thanks again.

Chapter 19 – The darkest hours

**New York. 2021. **

_It was the beginning of the darkest hours of the night, at the end of her shift, when Quinn noticed the missed calls on her phone; pages and pages of the same ominous number. She stood by the coffee machine in one of the abandoned ER corridors. The blonde was in the zombie-like state that often gripped her after hours of adrenaline had pummelled her to pieces; multiple traumas, a burns victim, two overdoses and a subarachnoid haemorrhage - and that was just the last few. Although it waxed and waned, the flow of patients through the ER doors never stopped completely. She had reached that zen –like place where she could no longer feel, not the aches in her body, nor the heaviness of her eyelids – her thoughts were gone and now she could only act and react, every primal sense heightened. _

'_You need to press the button, Fabray,' Sadie, one of the ER nurses, smirked as she passed her, her footsteps echoing off the floor as she hurried by. 'And go home - your shift finished twenty minutes ago!'_

_Quinn glanced up from her phone to flash her a friendly smile. More so than at Harvard, she felt that she fit straight in to the Weill Cornell ER team. It was a busy hospital, very busy, but as a group they were tightly knit; close and supportive of each other. _

_She jabbed at the button. The machine rattled, and a plastic cup dropped into the slot below; the instant coffee that spluttered from it was the greyish-brown of dishwater. Quinn tucked another stray blonde lock behind her ear before reaching for the scalding liquid. _

_But, again, the number flashed at her from the phone making her pause; so strangely familiar and yet unfamiliar that she just stared at it a moment, trying to connect the simple dots. Of course, it hit her with force when it clicked in her mind. Mickey Quinn… Uncle Mike. Normally that number would have filled her with fury. Many years had passed since she had last spoken to Mickey, years of careful distance and denial; and so much had happen in the years in between that she had almost been able to forget him, to forget what she had seen, what he had done. It haunted her sometimes, in dreams that blended the flames of a fire and dark blood on a concrete floor, but nowadays when she woke with the cold sweat on her skin and her scars burning with the memory, she would find Rachel sleeping peacefully beside her. Quinn would listen to the steady rhythm of Rachel's breathing to bring herself back to the reality she had fought so hard for. Through everything, Rachel had always anchored her. _

_Yet here he was again, Mickey's number flashing up on her phone after so long, and instead of anger, this time, it triggered a sickening dread, a horrible feeling that once more her life was about to be turned on its head. _

_Quinn glanced up, looking along the cold, empty corridor and shivered. The hospital, at night, was a lonely place. The corridors were dark, echoing with the sound of solitary footsteps that bounced off the cold, hard floors and reverberated up the cold, hard walls… _

_The third time that the number called her, she pressed the button to answer, holding the phone to her ear. She didn't speak, and for a moment, neither did he. _

'_Quinn…?' his tone held a tight hesitance that she did not recognise as him, 'Quinn…? Are you there?' _

_Her jaw clenched, unable, quite, to answer him. The silence stretched between them. _

'_Quinn? I…' Mickey's voice again, quiet and intense, 'I know that it has been a long time… Tell me it is you. Please.'_

_Her breath caught in her throat. She looked up to the panelled ceiling, the pale fluorescent lights that cast harsh shadows across the walls. _

'_It's me,' she replied quietly. _

'_Thank you,' he replied carefully, each word measured, 'I know that… I know that you do not want me to contact you; I have respected that. And I wouldn't, I wouldn't call you unless it was urgent. But this is urgent Quinn.'_

_Her fingers felt frozen around the phone as she listened, compelled to hear him out despite herself._

'_I need your help.'_

_Quinn exhaled slowly, the familiar resolve settling within her, stony cold in the pit of her stomach. _

'_I'm not helping you, Mike,' she replied in low tones. 'I want nothing to do with you... I want nothing to do with the people that you work with. There is nothing between us; there is nothing that I owe you. Nothing at all.'_

_And in the second that she should have hung up the phone, Quinn hesitated. _

'_Don't,' he said quickly, 'don't hang up.'_

_She glanced down the corridor, the endless empty arteries of this vast building. _

'_I have two people in New York,' he said evenly, 'two men… They are hurt, badly hurt…'_

'_Then tell them to get to a hospital,' she replied sharply. _

'_They can't,' he replied intently, 'it's not safe there. Nowhere in New York is safe, not for my people.'_

_Quinn leant back against the coffee machine, the plastic cup still sitting untouched in the slot. _

'_If you don't help me, Quinn, they may die.'_

_She closed her eyes, feeling the lance of the blade within her. _

'_Don't put that on me,' she said quietly. 'If they die… then it's on you. It's on you, Mike.'_

'_I'm asking for your help…'_

'_I don't care,' she whispered, 'I don't care. I don't want anything to do with you…'_

'_I wouldn't ask you unless…'_

'_I said no…' she cut him off._

'_Please Quinn…' the sound of him pleading with her should have alerted her earlier. It should have alerted her, but it didn't. She had never seen him be anything but controlled, even in his anger with her… even in his misguided manipulation._

'_I said no,' she replied firmly. 'I won't be guilted into this. Not by you.'_

_There was a silence on the other end of the line. A silence that swelled and spread, and finally, when he said the words, she almost anticipated them with that terrible dread that spiked an instant before he drew breath. _

'_He's my son.'_

_Like ice water the words ran through her; a kick to the stomach that knocked the air from her lungs. Her knees buckled and Quinn felt herself slide slowly to the floor, hitting the cold concrete with horrible finality. _

_His son. Her brother. _

_Quinn closed her eyes, wishing that she could un-hear what he had spoken. _

_She didn't know why she hadn't considered the possibility before; the possibility that he had a family just as her mother had, that she had brothers or sisters that she had never met, never even known of. _

'_You asshole,' she cursed him quietly. Not just for yet another secret, but for the shear manipulation of it. Another lie. Another lie that tore her up. 'You asshole.'_

_He was silent on the other end of the line, just listening to her breathing, for he knew that there was nothing that could be said, not now. It was too little, too late. It was something that he could never apologise for, never explain. They were in silence for a long time, the seconds tickling by, and the cold of the corridor seeped through the thin material of her scrubs, through her skin and sinews to her bones. _

_Finally, in a voice she barely recognised as her own, she asked the question that would once again change the course of her life. _

'_Where is he?'_

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

'…I just can't believe that he did it. I'm not even angry, B. I'm just so _disappointed_…'

Brittany and Santana sat close together at the kitchen table, the atmosphere heavy around them, and for once the cause of their distress was not the fractures in their relationship but the latest behavioural issue from their son.

Rachel leant back against the counter, feeling a little like an imposter in their kitchen. Dinner was already cooking in the oven and she had just added the final touches to the salad to accompany it, but the mood in the house was subdued.

'I don't know where we go with this,' Santana sighed, her tone unusually resigned, 'I don't understand him. I just don't… He has spent more time grounded in the last six months than not, and it has made no appreciable difference. He is _still_ fighting at school. He is _still_ arguing with the teachers. And now…'

She trailed off.

'And now this,' Brittany shook her head, completing the sentence for her. 'It's too much… Stealing it from Quinn and then burning it? _Burning it?_ It is so premeditated. So conniving.' Brittany felt the tears sting at her eyes. 'I don't understand what we are doing wrong, San. _Where_ did we go wrong?'

Santana reached out, covering her wife's hand with her own and squeezing it. She didn't understand either, neither his behaviour nor how she should react to it. For once she was lost for words.

Rachel sighed, trying to block out their conversation as she poured herself a glass of white wine. Carlos was fundamentally a good kid… Well, he was a charming kid, and she hoped that along the way his impulsive actions would become more considered. This latest incident, however, had crossed a line in her expectations.

'But what do we do?' Brittany asked, a certain powerlessness to her tone, 'he's already grounded, and it makes no difference to him. There is no privilege left to take away…'

In the silence that followed, Rachel bit her tongue. She had limited experience of children, except for Carlos, of course, and spent most of her time in an adult sphere. But, unlike his parents, she found his behaviour far from unusual; if anything, it followed the confident logic that had run him into trouble, much like her own behaviour had occasionally followed in the past. Carlos fought at school because he saw injustice there, and had not thought to escalate it to a higher power. He argued with the teachers because he was frustrated with their explanations and had not learnt how to ask without challenging them. He had stolen Quinn's passport because it meant the world to him to get her to stay, and later on he had placed it in amongst the logs of the fire because he was afraid that his parents would discover it. It was not from malice that he misbehaved.

'Why don't you just talk to him,' Rachel suggested finally as the sombre silence stretched on. Two sets of eyes, the dark and the light, landed on her, having forgotten that she was there with them in the kitchen. 'Taking away more privileges won't take back what he has done, or make him more sorry for it. It will just make him sadder and more resentful than he already is… And he is already pretty devastated.'

Santana's eyes narrowed slightly, her brow furrowing in thought.

'What do you mean?' she asked.

Rachel took a sip of the wine, regretting that she had opened her mouth at all about the whole thing.

'I mean that Quinn is the world to him,' she pointed out, her heart twisting a little as she said the name aloud, 'he only did what he did in order to get her to stay… but I think her reaction to it, and to him, was probably punishment enough. He was devastated when she left the house - she barely said a word to him, she was too upset.'

Brittany's frown darkened, a terrible sense of foreboding trickling through her. There would be no positive end to this, not that she could see... not for her relationship with Quinn at least, and the others?

Rachel continued, not seeing the apprehension on the blonde's face.

'He knows that what he did was wrong, but he needs love and understanding now,' Rachel said softly, unaware of how her words would come back to her through the following days. 'He needs to explain his actions, and he needs forgiveness from you... Just talk to him. Thats the hardest part... the rest, youll know what to do, because you are his parents... you'll know what to do because you love him.'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2021.<strong>

_There were no stars out as she walked through the dimly lit streets, following the directions that Mickey had given her. Her heart was hammering out a fast rhythm within her rib cage and she pulled her coat tighter about her, protecting herself against the cold. The cab had dropped her off a couple of blocks away and now, in the deepest hours of the night, Quinn found herself sneaking through the roads like a thief. It was fitting, she thought bitterly, for he had turned her into a thief tonight. With an eerie calm she had stood in the store room of the ER, methodically selecting her supplies from the shelves and from the medicine cupboards. Even though, in her rational heart, she knew that it was stupid, that in the clear light of day she would be horrified at what she had done, she had found it so terribly easy. _

_Mickey had a son. She had a brother. A brother. Though she had never met him, and would never meet him again, most likely, the connection was there… somehow, there, through the space and time of the years that they had grown up, living parallel lives, in parallel cities, bound by blood as surely as she and Franny had been bound by blood. Nothing could change that. Not time, nor distance. _

_The cold of the night bit at her skin, her breath forming a mist before her as she exhaled. The neon lights of the dodgy motel glowed into the night like a tacky Christmas display, and she approached it from the side, climbing up the outdoor steps to the first floor. Number 34. She hesitated, marvelling at the surrealistic feeling of being stuck in a life parallel to her own, as though one Quinn had left the hospital after her shift to go home, and was now curled up in bed with her beautiful girlfriend, whereas the other Quinn had chosen to steal from the people that she worked for and trek out to the Bronx, to try to help a man that she had never met because of a father she did not like nor trust. There was no moon tonight to judge her for her choice, and for that she was grateful. _

_She knocked softly on the door; it cracked open an inch. _

'_It's me,' she said, her voice rough. The grey eyes that met with hers were familiar._

'_You're alone?' he asked._

'_Of course.'_

_As he undid the chain, Quinn's suspicions as to his identity were confirmed. It was the same scar-faced middle aged man that she had seen with Mickey on each of the occasions that she had met with him. A handgun was heavy at his side as he hurried her in, the lines of tension etched into his skin. He clicked the safety back on the gun, that weary expression never leaving his eyes and absently she realised that she had never been told his name. _

_When he closed the door, he leant heavily against it. Quinn reached out a hand to steady him, registering for the first time, the paleness of his skin and the bloodstains across his clothes. The alarms in her mind started ringing._

'_Thank you,' he said weakly, though his voice was loud in the silence of the room, 'for coming...'_

_His features twisted into a grimace as he straightened, and without thinking, Quinn stepped forwards, sliding herself under his arm to support him._

'_You're hurt,' she replied pointedly, 'you need to lie down… to rest…'_

_His grey eyes met hers, that familiar expression that she saw a million times a day in frightened patients who attended the ER... but something more lay there. Something more than fear. _

'_I can't rest,' he said quietly, 'I can't rest when… when I need to protect him. I'm here to protect him…'_

_Quinn met his eyes steadily. _

'_You won't be able to protect him if you are dead yourself,' she replied bluntly. He looked down to the floor, his expression unchanged. 'Take me to where he is. And lie down. I'll see him first, then you… Don't argue with me.'_

_He didn't answer her with words, but led her towards a semi-hidden door that connected them through to the adjoining motel room. As Quinn pushed it open, it was the gun that she saw first, and then the man. Propped up on the couch, his green eyes were bright with fever as they trained the unsteady weapon on her. _

_If she had been expecting a younger version of Michael then she would have been disappointed; though the man before her shared the strong structure of her father's face, his colouring must have come from the mother that they did not share. His hair was crew-cut and dark, as dark as jet, but by far the most striking feature was the colour of his eyes, eyes that locked with her own. They were stunned with recognition, and Quinn knew in the way that he was looking at her, that he had not known of her existence either. _

'_Why didn't you tell me?' he asked, directing the question not at her but at the man she was supporting. 'You told me we could trust her… so you knew. You knew who she was…'_

'_Johnny…' he started._

'_Don't…' _

'_Lie down,' Quinn cut him off, edging the scar-faced man to the untouched bed, though she kept her eyes trained on the other. He watched her movements, an unreadable expression on his face. The steady intensity of his gaze was somehow familiar, and she recognised it as her own; as Michaels. _

'_He has been like this for hours,' the grey-eyed man told her, concern heavy in his words, 'delirious and feverish… speaking in riddles. The gun is not loaded, but he sees ghosts… he sees ghosts everywhere.'_

_Quinn approached the younger man, setting her backpack on the floor and slipping off her coat. _

'_Lie back,' she instructed gently, rubbing her hands together a little to warm them. He hesitantly complied, wincing as he moved._

'_My name is…' Quinn hesitated, and for the first time in nearly two decades she chose to use her given name, 'my name is Lucy… I'm a doctor, John.'_

_As she knelt beside the couch, he gripped her wrist, holding it tightly. Her eyes flicked to his sharply in surprise._

'_Your eyes are the same,' he said quietly. 'The other features… not so much…'_

'_I need to examine you…'_

'_But the eyes,' he continued as though he hadn't heard her, 'eyes… windows to the soul... his soul. His soul is black as the night.'_

_She eased her hand from his grip, gently pushing him back to rest against the pillows._

'_I don't have his soul,' she replied quietly, taking the stethoscope from her bag. He watched her restlessly, the glow of sweat on his fevered skin. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. _

'_Neither do I,' he said. 'Neither do I, Lucy.'_

'_Try to relax…'_

_Quinn smiled reassuringly at him as she moved through the familiar routine of her examination, finally lifting his shirt and unwrapping the makeshift bandages that were tightened around his abdomen. She couldn't help the sharp intake of breath as the smell hit her, the gaping edges of the wound, red and inflamed; the pus and debris within it. _

_He was stoic through the pain, but she met his bright eyes._

'_He's septic,' she said, speaking firmly to the older man behind her, 'he needs to get to a hospital.'_

'_We can't,' the older man replied, 'not in New York. He is as good as dead if they find him.'_

_Quinn looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes solemn._

'_Then get him out of New York,' she replied. 'I can only do so much here... and it will be a holding measure at best. This wound is festering, and he is septic. He needs surgical debridement and IV antibiotics… And he needs it now. He needs to be in a hospital.'_

_The scar-faced man sighed deeply. _

'_Then do what you can,' he responded helplessly. 'Mickey will have us out of here in a day or two.'_

_Quinn didn't need to tell him now, that a day or two may not be soon enough. Instead she turned to her bag and carefully started unpacking the equipment that she had stolen. Syringes. Needles. Betadine. Augmentin. She lined them up neatly on the floor. Sutures. Saline. A sterile pack. Sterile gloves. Some lignocaine. Dressings. Gauze. She slipped on the non-latex gloves as simply as she allowed herself to detach her emotions from the situation. It was a reflex, the protective professional barrier through which nothing could pass. _

'_Do you have any allergies, John?' Quinn asked softly, interrupting his rambling hallucinations. She deftly attached the needle to the syringe and drew up the saline to mix with the powder of the antibiotic, finding comfort in the familiar actions._

'_No,' he replied, that same smile pulling at his lips, 'no allergies... Nobody calls me John. It's Johnny. It's always been Johnny. Johnny Quinn. But I like the way you say it, Lucy. I like it.'_

_She mixed the antibiotic carefully, tightening a tourniquet around his arm and cleaning the skin over the bulging vein. _

'_Sharp scratch,' she murmured as she slid the needle into the vein, slowly injecting it into his blood. He barely flinched, his gaze far away._

'_I always wanted a sister,' he said finally. 'I grew up… so lonely. So lonely in that house, such a big, empty house… He never let me have friends... not really'_

'_I need to clean out the wound, John.'_

'_Was your house big and empty too? Did you also ache to be with others, with a family?' he asked her earnestly, 'I think you were lonely, Lucy. Lonely like me, in the shadow of these men… these great and terrible men.'_

_Quinn pulled a couple of the towels from the stack on the end of the bed and lay him down flat. _

'_It's going to hurt,' she warned him, unscrewing the top of the betadine._

_He hissed through his teeth as she poured the antiseptic into the wound. It spilt from the edges, running, dark, across his skin. She watched it thoughtfully as she wrapped the first piece of gauze around the forceps, to start cleaning the long, pus-filled gash._

'_It was a knife,' she said to herself, as she studied the edges of it, 'you were stabbed with a knife…'_

'_He wanted to kill me,' Johnny responded, speaking to the ceiling as the betadine soaked the wound, 'he wanted to kill me, Lucy. But he will learn… he will learn that the Quinns are tough. So tough. And hard to kill.'_

_It took her forty-five minutes to wash out the wound and carefully suture it closed. If he made it to a hospital, Quinn could imagine their confusion in seeing the long cut closed with the neat mattress stitch that Letitia Lennox had so painstakingly taught her. It was not some half-arsed job. She just hoped that he would survive until then._

'_Will I ever know your name?' she asked the scar-faced man as she walked to the door with him. His own wounds had been quicker to deal with than John's and they had talked in hushed voices as she worked on them. John had fallen asleep on the pillows, the fever still bright on his skin, and though Quinn almost wanted to wake him, to say good bye, she knew that the memory would be more like a fevered dream for him, half forgotten, half imagined. She doubted that he would remember her at all._

'_Just know me as a friend to you, Quinn,' he replied intently, grey eyes on hers, 'for that is what I am, now. A friend.'_

_It was almost seven in the morning as she walked out into cold air once again. The night was fading and in the faint light of the early morning, the outlines of the buildings were cut out like cardboard. It was just another morning. Just another New York morning, and the night before seemed like a fevered dream to her also, one that she could let fade away as the sun rose. _

_Much had changed, and yet nothing at all. Quinn was dazed as she walked, trying to make sense of it all..._

_It would be a year before she saw John again; that second, and last, time. _

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

It was later in the evening that Rachel found herself preoccupied once more with thoughts of the blonde doctor, of things that did not quite make sense. She had known Quinn Fabray a long time, almost all her life; she had loved her for much of it, and hated her too. But now, even though her decision had been made, a couple of lingering memories prevailed and nagged at her.

_You're the best liar I know, Quinn Fabray, sometimes even I can't tell._

She had banished the happy memories from her mind, those lazy days in each other's arms. Waking to the smell of fresh coffee in the morning, the blonde doctor sitting by the window in their small apartment, reading quietly as Rachel slept. She had banished the thoughts of those eyes, those hazel eyes that said so much when the woman herself was held silent.

_When she left two years ago… before she went to Cambodia… she never cheated on Rachel._

Jasper's words in the middle of the night, words that she was never meant to hear. How quickly she had dismissed them, how firmly, yet, now the words clung to her thoughts like cobwebs that wouldn't blow away.

_She cheated on me - she told me herself. And that is the end of it. _

Rachel stared into the fire, the flickering flames behind the glass in the sitting room. They were words of fact… or maybe words that had turned to fact. As unbelievable as they had been at the time, she believed them because there was nothing that Quinn would gain from lying to her… Nothing good could come of it, for either of them. It had hurt them both so devastatingly... But now the uncertainty of it was on her skin, like a rush of icy air. It did not add together, and she could not imagine why…

_We have to live with the choices that we made... We have to live with those decisions._

Final words from the other night, the words that would make them forever strangers… Somehow, it did not feel to Rachel that Quinn was talking about a mistake that she had made. A mistake of temptation or passion; it did not sound regretful or thoughtless, but calculated. A _decision_. Not a mistake. A decision that she had made.

_She cheated on me and I told her to get the hell out of my life…_

It had been the one thing that she thought that she could never forgive… A trust, a faithfulness that could never be restored, and ultimately, Rachel knew that she would never be able to allow herself to love Quinn again. Not in the way she had before. Through all the difficulties that they had faced, both together, and apart, Rachel had known, deep inside herself, that the blonde was devoted to her. But in that instant, it had shattered, the purity of their love tainted… Quinn knew what she was giving up by cheating on her… and she did it anyway.

_I want nothing but the best for you… I always have. _

Yet, it didn't make sense.

Quinn's own reaction to the mistake had been extreme. Rachel, in all her hurt and anger, had screamed at the blonde to leave, to get out of her life, but she had never actually expected her to leave the city, let alone the country, to follow her demands. Looking back now, she had expected apologies, copious, heartfelt apologies, and maybe she would have forgiven her, maybe they would have struggled through, stronger than before… but none came. Nothing came, for Quinn was gone. It was just that one night in the theatre when Quinn had confessed to her out of the blue, and just as quickly the blonde had vanished, as though she were a ghost; as though she had never existed at all.

…_she never cheated on Rachel._

It didn't make sense, but it was enough to sow the seeds of doubt, and, now, in her mind's eye, Rachel was haunted with the half-forgotten memory of Quinn turning towards her, and then turning away. It was like one of those holographic flip cards that they had played with as children, the image changing in just a fraction of a second…

She tried to remember the eyes, Quinn's eyes, as she spoke, but the memory eluded her… and with every passing second, the certainty grew. Something, perhaps, she had known all along but been too blinded with hurt to acknowledge.

Quinn turning towards her; Quinn turning away. Quinn turning towards her…

Quinn _turning away_.

Despite the warmth from the fire, Rachel felt the hairs rise across her skin. For with the rational distance of time, Rachel could start to see... the mist cleared, and beyond it, the startling truth that she had denied so firmly before. She knew it now as surely as she knew her own name.

Quinn had lied.

It made no sense, but with every passing second Rachel became more convinced of it, and with the certainty of it, she started to feel the hot fury stir within her; for it made no sense to her rational mind. There was nothing to be gained. Nothing. All that it had caused them both was pain; two wasted years of pain and broken trust and anger and hurt, so much hurt. It just made no sense…

As she thought back now to that night, Quinn had been distraught… but it had felt wrong. It had not been the anguish of guilt, but something much more unusual, something like fear. Fear, and desperation; and strangely, that was the key. It was the same expression that she had seen on the blonde's face earlier this very day, when she had searched through the ashes of the fire for her passport. Desperation and fear. Rachel ground her teeth, cursing herself for never seeing it before. For knowing the blonde so well, and yet letting herself be played by those skilful hands, those carefully selected words.

_We do stupid things when we are afraid… _

Another admission, another night… Still, the resonance of it persisted. She had believed what Quinn had wanted her to believe; once again she had been manipulated by the blonde, twisted skilfully out of her life, but this time, Rachel Berry was not the teenager hurt and bewildered by her girlfriend's actions, she was not a girl who would wait for them both to heal, to find each other again… No. Rachel Berry was a woman now, confident and self-assured, and she was angry. Furiously angry.

She needed answers, truthful answers, and she instinctively knew where to start searching for them.

She reached for her phone and punched a number that she had never called before in her life. It was the number of a man that she had never liked, but even with their mutual dislike, she knew that he had loved Quinn almost as much as she had.

When Jasper answered the phone, Rachel did not mince her words.

'I need to talk to you,' she stated seriously. 'In person.'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

'…why are you still in New York?'

His anxious voice on the other end of the line echoed the desperate voice within her. Quinn pressed her forehead against the glass, looking out over the city from Jasper's apartment, watching her breath form a mist of condensation.

'It's a long story,' she replied evasively.

Although really it wasn't; there were only two elements; her nephew, and her passport. That was the sum of it. Now, she was stuck; stuck in the country and, somehow, in the past, in the tangles of her mistakes.

'It is not safe, Quinn,' he warned her.

'I know.'

'No, you _don't_,' he cut her off. 'You don't get it... Joseph Waters was granted bail today.'

He heard the hiss of her sharp intake of breath, but she said nothing in response.

'He is under house arrest… but that means nothing. It is not safe for you to be in New York…'

The fear in her belly was both nauseating and sickeningly familiar.

'It has been two years,' she said, though even to her ears the words sounded hollow. She glanced up as she heard Jasper's phone start to ring in the kitchen where he was putting together some semblance of a late dinner. She waited as he answered it, the strong timbre of his voice deep and unmistakable, before going back to her own hushed telephone call. 'It has been two years...'

'He is a hunter, Quinn,' the man's voice was quiet as he spoke, 'Waters is a hunter, and he is hunting _you_. He will be hunting you until...'

The words seemed to dry up abruptly, but Quinn knew the ending that he had intended. He didn't need to say it, and she didn't need to hear it again. Once more, the walls were closing in, but this time fleeing was not an option.

'Chicago's not safe either,' she said quietly, thinking back over the events of the weekend before. 'Not anymore…'

'You have to get out, Quinn,' he said seriously, 'out of the country. The only thing protecting you at the moment is the fact that he does not know your name… but it won't protect you forever. Not if you stay.'

Quinn closed her eyes, feeling the cool of the glass against her skin. Somehow, with Joe Waters behind bars, she had been able to forget a little of the danger that she was in by being in the city. It had been pushed to the back of her mind, the dark shadows that had been pushed away by the light… and for a time she had almost believed it. Almost forgotten the fear that resided in those dark, cold corners, almost allowed herself to yearn for things that could not be. But there it was again, as inescapable and absolute as it had been that day two years ago after the night in the hospital. The night that John died; the darkest hours of the darkest night. January 30th 2022.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading - please review if you have the time, or send a PM if you prefer.<p> 


	20. Suspicions and confrontations

Many thanks to everyone who has continued to read and review this fic - your thoughts are always appreciated and they keep me writing. On an aside, I'm looking for new music to listen to if anyone has any suggestions. Have a good weekend

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 20 – Suspicions and confrontations<span>

**Interstate 87. Present.**

It was 5:30 in the morning, and the night was still heavy. The worker puffed out his cheeks against the cold and pulled the collar of his jacket higher.

'A little to the left!' He shouted up at his colleague, dipping the end of the roller into the sloppy bucket of paste.

The world had moved on in so many ways; computers the size of your palm, individualised advertising, and key-less cars… but one thing had remained the same, strangely unchanged through the decades, even here, in America; paper billboards still stretched 24 feet across and 12 feet high, scattered across every major artery of the US. The digital billboards were limited to Times Square and for that he was glad, as, for the moment, his job remained secure.

'Better?'

He grunted in response, slopping on the paste with the roller. He had perfected the technique over many years, and in minutes it was done; the last panel of this one completing the picture. Behind him the highway was quiet, and he took a moment to look upon the poster that they had just placed.

The blonde was beautiful, he would give her that, but there was something unsettling about the image. He couldn't quite place why, but he felt a shiver run down his spine. Maybe it was the background, the images of an unfamiliar land that hinted at blood and destruction and despair. Or maybe it was simply the look on the girl's face, her eyes focused somewhere else, looking intently over the viewer's shoulder giving the chilling impression that she had seen something others would not want to see. That she had seen death, and could now recognise it everywhere.

_The Young Idealist._

He shrugged his shoulders, snapping himself out of the unusual mood that had settled upon him. He didn't recognise the actress, he mused, turning away from her as he picked up the bucket of paste from the asphalt. But as he walked away he felt as though that unnerving gaze was following him, that he was walking towards whatever fearful future she had seen. The chill ran across his skin, and he was grateful that it was the end of the night, that he was going home to the warmth of his wife and family.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

It was the light streaming through the sitting room windows that woke Rachel in the morning. Someone had laid a blanket over her, but not woken her from her slumber and it took her a few moments before she remembered why she had not managed to climb the stairs up to the guestroom the night before.

She felt hungover, even though she had not had a drop of alcohol to drink since the night of the gala; it was not long ago in linear time, but it felt as though so many things had happened since that night. The landline phone started to ring on the coffee table, and she looked at it wearily before answering, the blocked number flashing across the screen.

'Yes?'

'Rachel?'

She frowned a little at the familiar voice, trying to place it.

'Rachel? It's Laura…'

In that second she realised simultaneously that not only was it her therapist, but also that she had missed an appointment the day before.

'Oh god, Laura,' she exclaimed, sitting up straighter on the couch, 'I'm sorry I completely forgot about…'

'Don't worry about it, Rachel,' the older woman's voice came clearly through the line, 'I saw the news from the other night and… well, I just wanted to check that you were okay. Your phone has been off…'

'It has,' Rachel agreed, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. 'I've only been turning it on to make calls. The paparazzi were camping outside the theatre… outside my flat…'

'Your friend, Santana, gave me this number… you listed her as your emergency contact…' Laura explained as Rachel trailed off.

'Yes,' Rachel frowned as she recalled that fact. She had not wanted her parents to know that she was seeing a therapist… well, not so much the therapist part, but the reason behind it. When the stalker incident had occurred, just over a year ago, it had shaken her to the core, and she had not wanted the extra fuss of her Dad and Daddy rushing across to New York to smother her. She had found it hard enough to deal with on her own without having them freaking out as well.

'So…?' Laura's voice on the end of the line, unusually reticent, 'are you okay?'

The brunette tightened her grip on the blanket around her, uncertain of how she was meant to answer.

'Yes,' she replied hesitantly, '…no… maybe?'

She closed her eyes. It wasn't Tom that featured in her thoughts. It was Quinn.

'It's over with Tom,' she stated. 'It has been over for a while, really. But I think you knew that…'

There was a silence on the other end of the line which irritated her irrationally.

'Stop judging me,' she snapped.

'I'm not judging you,' Laura replied, her voice soft.

'But you knew, didn't you? About Tom. About my… _relationship_ with Tom… You knew that it wouldn't last. That it wasn't right.'

'He…' the therapist started, before stopping herself. Her job was to reflect, not engage… her own thoughts on the matter were of no relevance, but then again, Rachel was not a usual client, and this was not a usual consultation. 'He never seemed to be the one you… _wanted_ to be with.'

Rachel let the careful words flow over her.

'No,' she agreed quietly.

The breakdown of that relationship was of no consequence to her. If anything, it was simply an inconvenience, an inconvenience because of the way in which it had happened, and the sudden involvement of the paparazzi and the press.

'I never…' she shook her head, 'I never really cared about him.'

She could hear Laura shift on the other end of the line, and wondered briefly where the woman was. Whether she was in her office or at home, in a room that Rachel had never seen, a domestic environment that seemed strangely unsuited to the therapist. The admission was not a surprise to either of them.

'He was just a... distraction,' she said softly.

But at the thought of Quinn, again, Rachel felt the anger start to heat in her blood. It was impossible to even express it over the phone, the riptide of emotion that stirred within her, and suddenly Rachel realised why her head hurt so much this morning. The fury itself was giving her a headache; she needed answers, she needed some goddamn answers.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

'Have a seat,' Ben offered Santana as he ushered her into the small office and quickly shut the door behind him.

'Very hi-tech,' she murmured dryly, looking at the cluttered surroundings. It reminded her of a teenager's bedroom, just on a miniature scale and without a bed. She raised an eyebrow dubiously at the chair, wondering whether it was safe to sit on.

'Keeps suspicions low,' he replied, rolling his eyes as she gingerly sat. She couldn't keep the sneer from her face as she tipped one of the stack of old mugs towards her; the contents had clearly been growing mould for a while.

'Washing up is not your forte,' she muttered. Ben smirked, leaning across her to switch on the screen.

'My talents lie in other areas,' he replied, not rising to the bait. 'Sit back, Lopez. It took a little arm-twisting, but I have your security footage…'

Careful not to touch anything for fear of what disease she may catch, Santana folded her hands in her lap.

'It may not matter,' she said absently as he fiddled with the mouse, bringing up the security video on the large screen. 'Waters got bail yesterday…'

'So I heard…' he drawled.

Her dark eyes flicked to his face, the strong lines of his jaw.

'And that doesn't bother you?' she probed.

Sensing the weight of the question, he paused, stopping to look over his shoulder at her. He measured his words carefully.

'The world is not straightforward,' he said, shrugging his broad shoulders, 'as much as you wish that it could be; it is not. There is no black or white, no right or wrong… no good or bad, Lopez. There are just… connections; so many shades of grey that people hide in.'

Her gaze hardened.

'Then you aren't surprised that he got bail?' she pressed.

'_You_ shouldn't be surprised either,' he responded pointedly, 'everyone is connected… like one big, terrible funnel-web. The spider is the one that you don't see. Power and money are the only currencies that people trade in these days – so it doesn't matter if you are a politician, or a judge, the DA, a policeman or the goddamn FBI… there are just layers of corruption, at every level. So a serial killer is likely to get off… does that surprise me? No. It pisses me off that our world works this way, but it doesn't _surprise_ me, Santana…'

Each one of his words were like little razor cuts to her skin, stinging as they sank in and ready to scar her.

'It's not the way that it should be…' she shook her head firmly.

'No,' he agreed, 'but it is the way that it is… and it is people like you who will get caught in the web, Lopez. People like _you_ who will suffer.'

'Because I believe in justice?' she challenged, her eyes flashing with irritation.

Ben smiled humourlessly.

'Because you are idealistic,' he replied, shaking his head, 'you believe in our country. You believe in the law. The constitution. And worst of all, you believe in people. You believe that human nature is not as… _ugly_ as it is.'

Santana's grip on her own hands was bruising as she listened to him. He had a skill with words, with cutting her to the quick, and it was that sharp intellect that she had always admired about him. She pursed her lips, a chill on her skin, as though the world had become just a little bit darker.

'Show me the footage,' she instructed, changing the subject and fixing her eyes on the screen in front of her.

'Fine,' he muttered, clicking on the "play" button. 'Try to remember which side of this case you are meant to be arguing...'

The grainy security picture sprang to life, angled down at the entrance to the ER. Above the sliding doors the letters could almost be made out, the hospital's logo and the stark white "Emergency" spelt against on the dark background. In the corner of the screen the twenty-four hour clock of the security camera ran at ten-times real time, dark images of people rushing in and out of the doors at superspeed.

'So this is labelled as the 21st of January,' he stated, 'it is quite innocuous during the day, but as we approach 11pm, something unusual happens…'

He waited a couple of seconds for the clock to speed round before slowing down the playback time. Santana narrowed her eyes at the image. The area before the ER doors appeared empty, or at least it seemed that way at first glance, but as Santana looked closer, there was a figure, almost out of frame. The figure moved a couple of steps, a phone raised to their ear.

'A doctor?' Santana asked curiously.

'Just watch,' he replied intently.

The figure's movements were agitated, and as they moved further into the frame, Santana was convinced that her first guess had been correct. By the narrow set of her shoulders, it was a woman, and the light coloured scrubs confirmed that she worked at the hospital. Either a doctor, or a nurse perhaps?

'I don't see why this is relevant…' Santana started after a moment, but just as the words had left her lips the dark form of a car shot into the frame, the passenger door swinging open to expel a body that was half thrown, half pushed from the vehicle. The doctor/nurse had turned as it approached, seemingly unstartled by the sudden appearance. They half caught the body as it fell towards the asphalt... In the second that followed, the woman looked up, her mouth opening as she spoke to the person in the car, and though her profile was grainy and indistinct, Santana felt her blood turn icy as she watched, her breath catching in her throat. In a second, the woman had turned away again. The car sped off and moments later a swarm of medical personal flooded through the hospital doors to gather around the body, rolling him onto a gurney, and rushing him into the hospital. The woman took her place at the centre of the action, her body language commanding. She did not turn back towards the camera, but for Santana it didn't matter. She knew the set of those shoulders, the smooth grace with which she moved…

'Can we go back…?' she asked, her voice tight, but Ben was shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the footage.

'Just wait,' he urged, 'just watch, and wait.'

And just after the gurney had disappeared through the door, two men stepped into the picture from the opposite direction. Unlike the woman from before, they faced the camera as they walked swiftly towards the ER doors. Tall and broad and dark haired; even with the poor quality of the tape, Santana recognised the taller of them as Joe Waters.

'The other one is Dan Holbrook,' Ben stated needlessly as the two men disappeared through the sliding doors.

Santana swallowed, a sickening feeling twisting in her stomach.

'It was labelled as the 21st of January?' she asked.

'Mislabelled,' Ben replied, watching as she reached out to rewind the recording.

Silently, Santana watched the scene again. And then again. And again. Rewinding until she saw the doctor look up, her side-on profile as she spoke to the occupant of the car… Everything within her wanted to convince her that she was being ridiculous, that it was impossible…

'It was the 30th of January,' Ben finished, watching her curiously from the corner of his eye. '2022.'

Santana felt the colour drain from her face; it was impossible... but the woman's mannerisms were so familiar, her very stance as she organised the medical team the same stance that Santana had seen a thousand times on the football field during cheerleading practice when they had been teenagers. She knew her. Deep inside, Santana knew, and the realisation cut her to the core.

She pushed herself up, her legs weak, reaching a hand out to steady herself. She felt shaky and uncertain, her breath coming shallowly.

'Are you okay?' Ben asked, concerned by her actions, but she didn't look at him, just stumbled towards the door.

'Fine,' she replied firmly, sounding more certain than she felt. 'Just… I just need to do something.'

What it meant, she had no idea. No idea at all, but the weight of it, the significance, was strangely heavy within her. Without another word, she fled the room, practically running towards her car.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

'You look like shit.'

Quinn glared at her netbook, or more aptly, at Jessica's image on the small screen.

'Thanks, Jess.'

The Aussie smirked, leaning forwards in the dim light of Jay's bar, and Quinn felt a surge of longing, not really for the other doctor, but for the place. Over the last two days she had come to realise that there was nothing left in New York for her. It was over. Truly over, and now, what she really needed, after all this time, was to start to move on, to properly move on. She felt hollow, as though everything within her had melted away, leaving nothing but a shell… those things that had once seemed so important, were no longer even tangible to her.

'Well, you know that you always look _hot_, Q,' Jess rolled her green eyes, 'but what I mean is… you look bored. Fed-up… and that's not to mention the bruises on your face…'

Jess took a sip of her beer, not waiting for a response from the sullen blonde.

'You look like you could be on one of those advertising campaigns about stopping domestic violence… Or maybe for self-defence lessons?'

And finally the corners of the blonde's lips started to twitch.

'You should see the other guy,' Quinn quipped, as she allowed herself a small smile, part of her gratified that the Australian was trying to cheer her up.

'Things didn't go well with your family?' Jess asked.

The blonde snorted at the understatement.

'Not exactly,' she replied. She opened her mouth to say more, but caught herself and shook her head wordlessly. It was too convoluted to even start to explain, and part of the simplicity of her friendship with Jess was that she had no idea of the Australian's complicated home life, and the Aussie had no idea about hers either. 'You know what families are like…'

However, Jessica was not easily deterred from her line of questioning, and her next question froze Quinn to the spot.

'Will your father pull through?'

It was asked innocently enough, but struck the blonde as sharply as a slap to her face.

'What?'

'…your father?'

'I never told you about my father,' Quinn responded certainly, all hints of humour on her face gone.

In the silence that followed, the Australian fidgeted under the intensity of her gaze, feeling it even from across the globe.

'Don't get twitchy, Q,' the girl retorted finally, but the blonde's intent gaze did not falter and after a few tense moments, Jessica crumbled. '_Fine_. You didn't tell me, I overheard you talking to someone on the phone about it just before you left...'

'You were eavesdropping?'

'I was coming to see you,' the Aussie objected, 'but I heard your voice through the door; you sounded upset… so I left.'

Quinn frowned as she took in the woman's words, uncertainty flooding her.

'I know that you… don't like to talk about your family,' Jess started again, speaking gently. That was it, really, the flavour of their friendship; one in which they could both escape from the realities of their respective pasts. Jess had known that Quinn would reject her comfort as surely as Quinn knew that Jess would deflect any questions about her own background. Somehow in the clammy heat of the day it didn't matter, not when the hospital was brimming with patients and the generator kept breaking. Their pasts were somehow removed from their realities when they were in Cambodia, and there was a comfort that came with that, with the distance it maintained.

The blonde raised her chin.

'I saw him,' she admitted quietly, surprising herself, 'my father. For the first time in eight years.'

She did not say how small Mickey had seemed, how diminished from the man that she had been afraid of years before. She didn't say how she had wept afterwards, how she had driven aimlessly through the day and night until she had found herself at Santana's door, in Santana's kitchen and finally, in Santana's arms, unable to explain her absence nor her tears to her worried friend.

Jessica nodded, realising that she was not going to get much more out of the blonde than that. Sensibly she decided to change the subject to more neutral territory, discussing the hospital first, and then the cases that she had seen, some patients that Quinn knew, and others that she did not. There had been some visiting diplomats that Francois had dragged around as well, trying to canvas money to support the accommodation that they had built for the orphans and from the sounds of it Jess had charmed them with her symmetrical dimples and happy-go-lucky attitude.

'They miss you,' Jessica stated finally, her green eyes sparkling as she spoke, 'the kids, I mean. Nabir has been waiting the gates for you each morning…'

'He should be going to school,' Quinn shook her head.

'He does,' Jess was quick to interject, knowing how close the Khmer boy was to the blonde, 'sometimes.'

Quinn rolled her eyes, although she wasn't particularly surprised. Just as she was about to say more, her phone started to ring, the familiar number flashing up at her.

'I'm sorry, Jess,' she said distractedly, picking up the phone from the table but not yet answering it, 'I have to get this.'

The brunette shrugged a shoulder.

'Over-and-out, boss,' she quipped, sending her a wink before signing-off.

Quinn stood, walking to the window before answering the phone. Even though Jasper had left the apartment already, for some meeting or photo-shoot or other engagement, she still felt uncomfortable answering her phone to this man. She jabbed the answer button.

'Hello?'

The connection was not good, probably because he insisted on using an ancient model.

'We have a problem,' he stated, voice tinny on the line.

'I know that we do,' she answered impatiently, 'we discussed it last night…'

'_No_, Q,' he cut her off, 'I mean a _serious_ problem. A _serious_ _fucking_ problem.'

The blonde doctor frowned, solemnity etching between her brows.

'Go on,' she said darkly, stealing herself as she expected news from Chicago, from the hospital.

There was a pause on the line.

'I'm standing in front of a 12 foot billboard with your face on it,' he stated finally.

'_What?'_

'Your face,' he repeated slowly, 'and your name.'

'My _name?_' she echoed, confusion flooding her tone. It didn't make sense, it didn't make sense at all... 'You must be mistaken…'

'I can see it with my own eyes.'

'But…' she shook her head, '...my _name?_'

'In letters as big as my hand, Quinn,' he replied seriously. The wind buffeted against the microphone, stealing the words from his lips. As it started to sink in, Quinn felt the hairs rise across her arms. She reached for the red string tied securely about her wrist, Santana's superstitious talisman for protection. It felt fragile beneath her fingers.

'What else does it say?' she asked, her voice sounding detached even to her ears. She knew before the words left his lips, she knew with a kind of terrible premonition.

'It's a film. A documentary,' he responded coolly, 'directed and produced…'

'… by Brittany Pierce,' Quinn cut in.

It was as though ice water had been tipped over her, and she found herself struggling to breathe. The news, and its inevitable consequences slammed down on her heavily, crushing her chest. The bile rose in her throat as she started to hyperventilate, her fingers started to tingle and she dropped the phone to the floor, enable to control her breathing as the panic truly took over.

Brittany Pierce.

She emptied the contents of her stomach into the waste paper basket, stumbling as she did so to fall to her knees, her whole body trembling. For as certainly as she knew her name, she knew that it was over.

_It was over_.

Coherent thought was gone, stunned from her mind and all she could think, with a horrible finality, was that it was finished. _She_ was finished.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

For the third time in the last couple of weeks, Jasper found himself within the Lopez-Pierce house. It was starting to feel oddly familiar to be sitting on the couch, and that thought alone to him was rather disturbing.

'I don't know what I can tell you about Quinn,' he started earnestly, 'that you don't already know yourself…'

Rachel sat restlessly in the armchair opposite him. She had the air about her of someone who wanted to be pacing but had controlled themselves; like a live wire, she was dangerous and unpredictable. It made him nervous.

'You can give me perspective,' she replied quietly.

Her expression was serious, the beautiful lines of her face, so well-known these days, were strangely unfamiliar without her trademark smile. She looked older, as though the years had all decided to press heavily into her soft skin.

'About?'

'About why Quinn lied to me.'

The statement itself surprised him, but the steady way that she said it revealed the weight of her thoughts. She had turned it over and over in her mind, visited and revisited it, until she had become convinced. Jasper shifted uncomfortably.

'I don't know why…' he admitted quietly.

'But you are convinced that she did?'

'I wasn't,' he replied carefully, 'not until the other night… before that, I thought that she had cheated on you. I hadn't seen her in two years, Rachel… I knew that something terrible must have happened to make her run – and I had no reason to think that she would lie to me, not about something like that…'

The brunette's brow furrowed. In all her anger she hadn't really considered that; she hadn't considered that any outside forces had been at work, but now she didn't know what to think. The world had turned on its head and she was finding it hard to understand.

'I had thought that we were happy,' Rachel murmured, more to herself than to him. 'Finally together. In New York. Starting a life together...'

And Jasper looked away from the vulnerability on her face, the rawness of it. He didn't want to agree or disagree with her; it wasn't his place to comment. Jasper didn't need to tell her that she had meant the world to Quinn; he didn't need to tell her that she always would.

'If you want answers, Rachel,' he said lowly, 'you know who you need to ask. And it's not me.'

Her brown eyes shifted to his as he stood up, ready to let himself out of the house.

'I'm too angry to ask her,' the brunette said softly.

He reached for his jacket, shrugging into it.

'No,' he responded, measuring her up in the way he would with a subject through a camera lens, 'you're too scared.'

She took a breath, ready to say more, but with the kind of unfortunate timing that could only come with the blonde doctor, the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway drew their attention. Jasper frowned, stepping towards the window to squint out at it, and a second later, the front door opened. Quinn's voice, shaky and raw, called out.

'_Brittany?'_

It wasn't what she said, but the way that she said it that pushed Rachel instantly to her feet. It sounded like Quinn, and yet, so unlike her; all broken edges and sharp angles.

_'Brittany?'_

Just as Rachel reached the door to the hallway, Brittany appeared at the top of the stairs, the light from the landing silhouetting her from behind. Quinn was pale, the colour drained from her, and she seemed to be trembling, like a leaf in the light breeze. The doctor didn't even acknowledge them, her eyes fixed on the taller blonde at the top of the staircase.

'How could you do this to me?' the words seemed ripped from her, not spoken but torn, _'how could you?_'

Rachel was frozen as she watched, any words she had thought to say were stuck in her throat. Brittany didn't move, as shocked to stillness as Rachel.

_'How could you!' _

The demand became stronger, the blonde standing straighter for a moment before crumpling once again. It snapped Brittany out of whatever paralysis had gripped her, and she started down the stairs, but Jasper was faster, pushing past Rachel to wrap his arm around Quinn, steadying her against his body.

She barely noticed him, pushing him away blindly.

'Quinn, I…' Brittany started, but there were no words to follow, nothing that could be said. Quinn was shaking her head, her blonde hair messy about her pale face. It had been such a long time since Rachel had seen her like this, so out of control, so childlike somehow.

Jasper glanced up as the front door opened again, snapped out of his daze and in that second, Quinn broke free from him, steadying herself against the banister as she moved towards Brittany.

Santana stepped in to the house, taking in the tense scene before her uncertainly, her eyes meeting Jasper's first and then Rachel's.

_'Quinn…_' Brittany tried again, but the hazel eyes that bore into her were both haunted and hard, filled with hurt, and desperation. With betrayal. Quinn climbed the few steps between them, looking up into the face of the friend that she had trusted and loved for so many years. The bright blue eyes sparkled with unshed tears and Quinn felt the stillness of certainty sweep over her. A fine film of cold sweat glowed across her pale skin, from panic, from this anxiety that had stirred so deep within her that it seemed to rattle her bones. She knew that she must look like a ghost.

'You have killed me,' the words came deep from that dark place within her, soft and certain and frightened, 'you have killed me as surely as if you pulled the trigger yourself.'

Though barely above a whisper, they settled in the heavy silence, with the beautiful delicacy of snowflakes atop fresh snow.

Rachel felt the chill of premonition run through her. At her side, Jasper shifted, and she knew that he had felt it too, as though the secrets lay just below the surface, ready to break.

'Quinn,' Santana's voice was filled with a steadiness that she did not feel. Something had happened... something was happening to all of them...

The blonde shifted minutely, suddenly aware of the gazes at her back, of Rachel, and Jasper, and Santana…

'What's going on?' the Latina asked softly to the silence.

Her mouth was dry, dry with all the words that she could not speak anymore. She could feel it now, the fragile structure of so many lies, starting to fall apart around her.

'What _the hell_ is going on?' Santana's voice was barely above a whisper but Quinn flinched regardless. The walls seemed to be closing in on her, crushing down, and the people that she had cared about, the people that she had tried to protect…

She closed her eyes, wishing that she could block them out, all the thoughts and feelings. She was shaking again. Trembling. Though whether it was more from the fear of what she felt was the inevitable end looming ahead of her or from the more personal and childish fear of being found-out, she couldn't say. It had been a long time since Quinn had felt like a child, small and scared. It had been a long time since she had felt that she needed to answer to someone, but in this moment, perhaps her fear was more of telling them, of admitting all that she had lied, so carefully, about everything. She was afraid of their disappointment. Afraid of the looks in their eyes.

'You should tell them,' his voice, gravelly from many years of smoking, startled her. It startled her enough to look up.

'Jesus Christ!' Santana cursed in surprise. The tall man had slipped through the open door behind her as silently as a thief.

Quinn recognising the haunted look on his face as the one on her own. His cheeks were hollow and that scar, so prominent when they had first met at the funeral, had now faded to a silver line. He had known where she would go when she hung up the phone on him earlier. He had known where to come to intercept her.

'There is nothing left to hide, Quinn,' he said gently.

'_Roy?_' Rachel's brow furrowed in confusion, looking between them, and Quinn could feel the questions start to form on the tip of the singer's tongue. She had always been so quick at working things out. The grey-eyed man glanced at Rachel, his expression closed, and Quinn felt her heart start to beat faster in her chest. The large brown eyes narrowed. 'You _know_ each other?'

The question was the first of a million, and Quinn didn't know where to start, how to reconcile the two realities that she had somehow managed to keep separate for so long; it was a tangled maze within which she had lost herself.

'Yes,' she finally whispered, looking down at the carpetted floor, looking anywhere to avoid them. She laughed humourlessly at herself, closing her eyes again, shaking her head. _'Yes._'

It was just one word, but Quinn could feel the tears sting in her eyes. For with that one word, she knew that it would all fall apart, every last dark secret that she held so close. The distress that shook through her was powerful and she felt herself start to panic once more, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Warm hands closed around hers, bringing her back to reality, steadying her. She expected to see Jasper when she looked up, but instead Rachel's soft brown eyes looked back at her, looked back at her in the way that they used to. She seemed ready to say something, but the words would not come.

'You owe us an explanation,' the singer whispered finally, speaking in the gentle way that she would to frightened child. She didn't release her grip on the blonde's hands. and Quinn no longer had the strength to pull away.

* * *

><p>Sorry for the cliff-hanger - I promise that the next chapter will answer a few questions. Thanks for reading - please review.<p> 


	21. Confessions

A/N: Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter - I know that this story can get quite confusing, so thank you for sticking with it. Hopefully the next few chapters will answer a few questions.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 21 – Confessions<span>

Panic was bubbling up within her, every muscle tense and ready to flee, but then Rachel's hands, warm and steady, covered her own. Quinn looked into her dark eyes, the eyes that she had once known so well. Eyes that could see straight to her soul, that could read her every thought.

'I want to hear it all,' Rachel said quietly, seriously, 'everything, Quinn.'

Her heart was racing and she could feel Santana's gaze on her, Brittany's presence at her back… She was surrounded by them, cornered; there was no way to deflect their questions now… and what did it matter anyway? Now that everything was falling apart? The trouble wasn't just ahead for her, it was ahead for all of them.

'You don't know what you're asking…' she stalled.

'I don't care,' Santana's voice was hard, her arms folded across her chest. Quinn looked up at her and the expression that she was met with was far from reassuring. 'I know that you are involved with something…' that Latina started, shaking her head, 'you're involved with something big... The secrets have to stop, Q. They stop _now_.'

Jasper looked between them, confused and concerned. Unlike the others, he had not known Quinn before the fire all those years ago, and as such there had always been a part of her that was closed to him, a secret part of her that had been carefully buried for years. He had never expected anything more from her, but he felt it now, a strange but certain premonition, that if she left the house now then he would never see her again.

'We love you,' he said quietly. She didn't look at him, but slowly the slope of her shoulders started to fall – whether in resignation or acceptance, he didn't know.

'If you want to hear it…' she said softly, looking down at the floor for a moment, 'if you want to hear it, then you hear it all. You hear it all… and you don't ask questions, not until I'm done…'

'You'll tell us the truth?' Santana pressed.

Rachel glanced back at the Latina, and was startled by the look on the woman's face. It was unsettling, her expression so hard and uncompromising... It struck Rachel in that moment that the Latina knew more than she was letting on, and that whatever she knew was bad. Trepidation flooded through her.

Quinn looked up at her oldest friend and Rachel was relieved to see a flicker of the girl she had known in the challenge of that gaze. It was as though the fear and panic that had gripped Quinn moments before was slowly seeping out of her, leaving something stronger, resigned but certain.

'If that's really what you want.'

* * *

><p>'Does he need to be here?' Santana demanded, nodding her head towards the hollow-cheeked man who loitered in the doorway as the rest of them settled in the sitting room. The blonde doctor looked up, her eyes meeting his.<p>

'He is pretty integral to all of this,' she replied ambiguously, glancing at the arm chair before walking to the window instead, leaning back against the sill. Words had never been difficult for Quinn, but distilling the truth was. As a child her parents had inadvertently cultivated her ability to spin words, to dodge to truth without quite lying. She had become proficient at eloquently telling people what they wanted to hear, and now it felt awkward to try to do the opposite, to find the words to explain the inexplicable.

'I've lied to you,' she started, her voice was quiet, but steady. She could feel Santana's eyes on her once more, but could not look up to meet her gaze. 'All of you… to varying degrees. I didn't mean to at first, but then it became…' She trailed off, seeming to search for the right words. 'It became impossible not to.'

Brittany had settled, silently, in the corner of the couch; Santana by the door. Quinn looked instead towards the empty fireplace, wishing momentarily that it was lit. That she could lose herself in the flickering flames.

'All I wanted…' the words evaporated even as they were spoken. Regrets and mistakes, they tasted so bittersweet on her tongue. Had it been the right choice? Had it been wrong? Her own inability to face reality had resulted in this…

She took a breath, the last breath of a diver at the edge of the board, but then held it for a moment too long, her nerves getting the better of her. Though she seemed ready to speak, no words emerged.

'It's okay…' Jasper's voice seemed hollow as he stepped forward, sitting himself down on the edge of the couch, not quite brave enough to reach across the distance to her. Quinn's eyes darted up to his.

'No,' she replied quietly, 'no, it's not, Jasper.'

He had settled himself close to Rachel. Had the situation been less serious, Quinn would have found some amusement in the fact that the two of them, who had despised each other for so many years, were somehow finding support in each other. She felt her throat tighten at the expectant silence that filled the room. They were all isolated from each other… each and every one of them separated, waiting desperately for answers. But she knew that her words would only drive them further apart from each other, that the truth would devastate rather than heal.

'Russell Fabray was not my father.'

* * *

><p>Santana was tense, her arms folded firmly. The apprehension that she had felt since the morning, when she had watched the security footage of the hospital, was only intensifying. At Quinn's opening line, she felt her eyebrows rise; it had certainly not been what she had expected.<p>

'My mother had an affair,' Quinn continued, 'with one of his business partners and, for whatever reason, Russell agreed to raise me as his own. I was never his…'

'When did you find out?' Brittany's soft voice questioned gently. Quinn didn't even bother to turn towards her.

'I didn't know until after the fire,' she said steadily, 'until after my mother died. He came to the funeral, you see… the man she had loved. He came for her, to say good bye.'

The blonde took a steadying breath, and Santana felt herself breathe it in as well. Memories of those dark days after the blaze always left a bitter taste in her mouth, always made her heart trip unsteadily. Before that night, Santana knew that she had been a child, superficially at least. Her life had been dominated by the fight for popularity, for the conflicting desires to engage in Glee and dominate the Cheerios, fearing her love for B, walking through McKinley High and having the students part to let her by… The night that Quinn Fabray had jumped from a window to save her own life had left her orphaned and broken in every way… It had left Santana questioning everything. Never had mortality felt so close, so real.

'His name is Michael. Michael Quinn.'

In the pause that followed the grey-eyed man snorted softly.

'_Mickey_,' he corrected her gently. '_Mickey_ Quinn.'

Somehow the name hit its target, like an arrow to an unlikely bullseye, and Santana's eyebrows shot up.

'_The_ Mickey Quinn?'

Rachel looked back at her sharply.

'Who the hell is Mickey Quinn?' the singer demanded, more of Santana than Quinn.

Quinn seemed disinclined to answer, and Santana felt her stomach start to churn unpleasantly.

'A mobster,' she replied coolly.

Had it not been for the Joe Waters case, Santana would never have recognised the name. She would have been as clueless as Rachel about it, but strangely enough, the words "Mickey Quinn" had appeared in large black print on at least two of the briefings earlier in the week. He was more of a footnote than a subject in himself, but prominent in her memory nonetheless.

Quinn still refused to look up, though her stony expression, as with most of her expressions for Santana was easy to read. When she didn't automatically contradict her, Santana felt the chill run over her skin.

'_Please_ tell me you are kidding…' Santana murmured.

For the first time, Quinn's eyes flicked to hers and Santana could see the truth there, as plain and ugly as it was. Somehow she could see both the girl she had known, and a stranger, a stranger who knew of darkness, and of shadows, who had worked her way seamlessly between them.

'I'm not kidding,' Quinn replied quietly.

'He…' Santana started to object, but the words died on her tongue. _He has killed people_. That was what she had wanted to say. _Murdered people_. Maybe not with his bare hands, but there was no doubt that men and women had died at his order. Interstate prostitution. Drug trafficking. Extortion. Racketeering. The ugly list went on.

'I didn't choose this, San.'

The shock was cold, and yet she couldn't quite bring herself to believe it. It was so disconnected from reality that Quinn could possibly be anything but the girl who had grown up only twenty minutes across town from her. But then the Fabray house had always been closed and cold; uninviting. Even as children Santana had felt it, the way that the walls were so tall and white, with everything in its perfect place, like a museum… little Lucy Quinn Fabray had worn the perfect façade for so long. It was a lie. It had all been a lie. Santana shook her head. Maybe you only see what you want to see. Maybe that is the real truth.

'It doesn't change who I am,' Quinn seemed to sense her thoughts and her voice wavered slightly with emotion, the first crack in the smooth façade. But Santana was still shaking her head.

'Why didn't you tell me?' she demanded quietly. While she had promised herself that she wouldn't flip out, she couldn't quite help herself from allowing the hurt to bubble through her. She could feel Brittany's eyes on her from across the room, the crystal blue wide. '_Why_ didn't you tell me, Q?'

'Santana.'

Rachel's voice was low in warning.

Unable to stand still, Santana pushed herself from the wall, her sharp dark eyes fixing on the singer. If anyone should feel as she did, then it should be Rachel. The betrayal should cut as deeply for both of them.

'She has known for years,' Santana stated sharply, 'for over _ten years_…' She turned to the impassive blonde; the doctor whose expression was still so closed. '_We don't lie to each other_. You and me, Quinn, _we don't lie to each other!_ How could you say that to me? How could you ever say that to me when every single day has been a lie? A _fucking lie!_'

'Stop it, Santana,' Rachel repeated firmly, pushing herself to her feet and facing the Latina squarely, planting her hands on her hips. To everyone's surprise, Santana paused in her rant, controlled the furious swell of words.

'Ten years…' she echoed, and she could feel Quinn look at her, the expression unreadable. Now was not the time for apologies - they both knew it, for there was nothing that Quinn could say now that would not sound hollow.

'There is more to this,' Rachel stated quietly.

The weight of words not yet spoken seemed to press heavily upon them.

Santana took a deep breath, trying to calm the anger and hurt within her. She glanced over at the man, the silent man who seemed to be listening to every word with a steely expression in his eyes. He had a hardness to his features that came from violence, not just seeing it, but living it, the kind of violence that seeps into the skin. A thin line of a jagged scar was visible on his cheek; it dipped across the vermillion border of his lip, giving him the slight look of someone who was permanently snarling. Had he not seemed so hollow, Santana thought, he may well have been attractive.

'You work for him,' the lawyer stated certainly. 'For Mickey Quinn.'

He met her gaze steadily, before looking to Quinn instead.

'I did once,' he agreed quietly, meaningfully. He did not elaborate further, though something seemed to pass between him and the young doctor, some mutual understanding.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2022. <strong>

_The wind was strong and icy despite the sunshine out on the decking of the twenty-second floor. The concierge had given her a strange look when she had asked to be allowed outside, but he had acquiesced anyway, offering to find her a chair if she intended to stay. Quinn had declined._

_She wrapped the jacket tightly around her, fighting against the icy wind to reach the edge. It was January, and the decking, which in summer was usually packed with people, was empty. The isolation made the view the view, in Quinn's opinion, all the more beautiful. She leant forwards against the wall, the pale sunshine flooding over her; a baptism of winter light. She felt a contented smile tug at her lips, breathing in against the rough wind. She felt as though she were at the bow of a ship, and before her the thick forest of Manhattan spread out to the horizon. From this height, the intricacies of the city could be appreciated, the grandeur, the magnitude; the sight left her in awe. _

_Two gold bands felt heavy in her pocket, anchoring her to the earth, to reality. _

'_What the fuck am I doing out here?' _

_Santana's harsh tones cut through her muffled serenity, and Quinn barely turned her head to look at her friend. She didn't want the spell to be broken._

'_Quinn!' the lawyer snapped, reaching her shoulder and huddling closer to her, 'you asked me to meet you for a drink! I didn't sign up for this outdoorsy shit...'_

_Santana paused in her rant, only to frown at the bemused expression on the blonde's face, her hair whipping about in the wind. _

'_What's going on?' She asked slightly more suspiciously._

_Quinn took a deep breath and reached for the small box in her pocket, pausing before carefully taking it out and handing it to the Latina. Santana's agitated movements suddenly stilled. Her dark eyes focused on the small box for a moment, before looking up more seriously at the blonde. _

'_What is it?' she asked hesitantly. _

_Quinn closed her eyes, raising her face towards the sunshine again. Was it fear? She wondered at the feeling that had her heart tripping in her chest. Was it fear that made her feel unsteady? A fear of finally getting everything that she ever wanted? Of being so close._

'_You know what it is,' she replied pointedly. Since they were children, Santana had always had the habit of asking questions to which she already knew the answer. She could feel the Latina hesitate at her side._

'_Open it,' Quinn instructed gently, and beside her, Santana did. She fumbled with gloved hands to open the velvet box, her eyes fixed on the contents, swirling with the implications. Her lips parted, both surprised and yet not at all. The shivers that ran across her skin were nothing to do with the wind. _

'_They're white gold,' Quinn said steadily, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, 'I wanted something simple. Simple and elegant.'_

_Santana nodded. The two rings lay side by side. The sunlight glinted off the pale bands, making them glow with an almost unnatural light._

'_They're beautiful,' the Latina murmured; and for once her words were not sarcastic or biting. She turned her gaze to the blonde. 'Are you… are you sure?'_

_Quinn met her gaze uncertainly._

'_I'm…' she paused, trying to find the words. A self-deprecating smile twitched on her lips, 'I'm scared.'_

_Santana snorted. _

'_You're kidding me, right? The great and mighty Quinn Fabray?' she laughed mockingly. 'You're planning on proposing to the rising star of Broadway… I think that you are allowed to feel a little scared.'_

_Quinn let herself relax a little. Santana's sharp comments never failed to give her perspective. _

'_I'm not scared of proposing,' she replied quietly, ignoring the disbelief in the Latina's eyes. Santana may be sceptical, but it was the truth. She had no fear of asking Rachel to commit to her, for Quinn felt that she could not give more of herself to anyone. There was nothing frightening about that… instead it was the honesty that terrified her. For Quinn knew that it was time; time to start telling Rachel the truth, about her parents, about Mickey, about the man in the basement, about the gun… about the brother she had met only once. All of it. It was time to tell her… to wash the slate clean, and if Rachel could still want her after that then…_

'_She's my soulmate, San,' she said certainly, 'as corny as it sounds. She is.'_

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

Rachel felt cold.

She drew her knees up to her chest as she listened to the steady voice whose inflections she had known so well for so long. The more that Quinn spoke, the less variance there was in the tone, as though every word took her further from her core, from the emotions that were buried there.

'It wasn't an accident… the fire. It wasn't an accident,' the blonde continued quietly, refusing to look directly at any of them. 'The police report was altered; Mickey bribed them to change it.'

For a moment, she looked as though she would continue, drawing breath to speak before releasing it in a frustrated sigh, pushing herself to her feet. It was harder than she had imagined to speak and she was struggling. Rachel's eyes followed her, the inelegance of Quinn's movements giving away her agitation. Her jaw tightened, then relaxed, only to tighten again.

'What do you mean "it wasn't an accident"?' Santana cut in again, the lawyer in her dissecting every statement as the rest of them sat in stunned silence. Quinn shot her a look, and part of Rachel was relieved to see the fiercer side of the blonde flare, even if it was only for a moment.

'What do you _think_ that I mean, Santana?' she snapped, before turning back to the window and bracing herself against it, staring outside.

'It was a disagreement,' the grey-eyed man stated steadily. Rachel looked at him suspiciously as he spoke. She had always known him as "Roy"; he had acted as so many things for her, from chauffeur to stage-hand, even as a bodyguard that one time that the stalker had made his way to her dressing room… but clearly "Roy" not the person she had thought that he was. Even Quinn was not the person that she had thought that she was…

'Mickey and... Fabray grew up together. They came from the same town, went to the same school,' he continued flatly, 'both Irish-American Catholics and as thick as thieves. Fabray was always the brain; Mickey was the muscle. So bringing Russell onboard was clever; he was clever, a businessman, a money launderer, and smart enough to try to keep his family out of it all.'

Russell Fabray sprung, unbidden, to Rachel's mind and she was surprised at how clear the image was even after all these years. Blue eyes and a commanding presence, broad and tall; he had always made her uncomfortable. Quinn had never been close to him, much more involved with her mother than her father, but she had always sought his approval, always been hurt by his criticisms. They had had a love-hate relationship, both complicated and intense. In the years after the fire, Rachel knew that his death had haunted Quinn, even more so than the deaths of her mother or sister. She had thought that it may be because he had still been alive when Quinn had jumped from the window… or because they had never managed to resolve their issues whilst he had been alive. But now she wondered if, perhaps, it was because Quinn had never known that he was not, in fact, her father at all.

Rachel watched the blonde's narrow shoulders as Roy spoke.

'…there is a strong rivalry between the northside and southside in Chicago,' he continued clearly, talking mostly to Santana who stood irritably by the door, 'it's a turf war, for business and for money.' He paused, turning his eyes to the back of the blonde's head, 'there was a disagreement… and in 2012, they tortured and killed the Fabrays, and…' Outwardly Quinn didn't seem to move, holding herself motionlessly, but Rachel could see the knuckles on her hands turn white as she held onto the window sill. '…their daughter.'

Even Santana didn't speak after that statement, whatever questions she had dying on her lips.

'He tortured them,' Quinn said finally in a voice that raised the hairs across Rachel's skin, 'that's why they were upstairs, together, in that room… He tortured them. And then he tied them up, and he let them burn.'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2022. <strong>

'…_don't try to do anything with the ventilation tonight,' Quinn leant against the edge of the workstation, tucking the strand of blonde hair that was always breaking free behind her ear again. She glanced between the patient and the monitor, listening to the steady beep-beep-beep of the ECG trace. 'Just get the haemofilter going as soon as possible; a high exchange should bring down the phosphate, and we will see where we are in the morning. I spoke to the family when we were in the ER, and painted a pretty dismal picture of the outcome, but I think that it would be good if you could give them an update when you know the scan results.'_

'_Will the radiologist call me?' the ICU resident asked, making notes on a small piece of paper._

'_Of course,' Quinn smirked to herself; the on-call radiologist, by some strange coincidence, had been one of her classmates from Harvard and had jumped on the chance to be helpful when she had called him. 'He's looking at the images now. He will call you first, and then the renal physicians.'_

_The resident added a final note to his paper before straightening. _

'_Thanks, Fabray,' he said. 'You heading home now?'_

_Quinn raised her arms above her head to stretch. _

_The intensive care unit was dark, illuminated only by the flashing of the screens and the occasional spotlight. The nursing staff moved quietly around the bed-spaces, changing syringe pumps and checking the monitors. It was so very serene in comparison to the chaos of the ER._

'_Soon,' Quinn yawned; she was knackered from a long shift running between the ER, the ICU and the CT scanner… and at home it was not much better. Rachel had been having auditions all week and the stress in their apartment had reached an all-time high. If she didn't love her so much, Quinn swore that she would have cheerfully strangled her at some point over the last two days. 'I finish at eleven.'_

_She glanced at a watch as she left the unit, meandering back towards the ER. She was in two minds as to whether she really wanted to go home to her highly strung girlfriend tonight. When her phone rang, she automatically thought that it was Rachel, for it was unlikely to be anyone else calling her this late in the evening. _

_She answered without hesitation._

'_Sweetheart…' she started, a smile on her lips. _

'_Quinn?' The frantic, male voice stopped her in her tracks. 'Quinn? Is that you?'_

_His voice was familiar, the tone chilling. She paused in the long, dark corridor, a frown etched between her eyebrows._

'_Who is this?'_

'_He's been stabbed,' the voice triggered a memory, as though the blinds had snapped open. Mickey's right-hand man, the man with the grey eyes. The man with no name, just a scar from his lip to his cheekbone. 'There is so much blood. Too much blood…'_

_It flooded back so rapidly, the voice, the person… and the man that he was talking about. _

'_John.' She breathed the name._

_It was a year ago. Over a year ago, and she had not heard anything from Mickey since. Sometimes she felt as though she had dreamt that night, it blurred together, the words and sounds and actions..._

'_He's losing consciousness…'_

'_Then get him to a hospital.'_

_There was a pause on the line, the screech of breaks in the background._

'_Get him to a hospital, now!' she ordered._

_She had stopped walking along the empty corridor, every muscle tense as she listened._

'_Where are you?' he finally asked. _

'_It doesn't matter where I am,' Quinn snapped, 'if he has been stabbed you need to get him to a hospital. Any hospital. Now!'_

'_I will only bring him to you,' the objection came from the other end, the noise in the background intensifying. _

'_Jesus Christ…' The blonde doctor growled. _

'_I trust you, Quinn.' The man's words were like gunshots and Quinn closed her eyes, trying to keep control of her frustration. 'I only trust you.'_

_She ground her teeth, the chilling apprehension raising the hairs across her skin. Nausea churning in her stomach. _

'_I'm in Queens. New York Hospital Queens.'_

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

'…I never had a good relationship with Mickey,' Quinn stated, her voice sounding foreign even to her ears, it was wooden and toneless. 'We saw each other a few times in the years after the fire, but it was always difficult, awkward. Then, when I was twenty-two, there was an… an incident. And I refused to ever see him again.'

'What happened?' Santana pressed.

Quinn glanced up, meeting the lawyer's hard dark eyes from across the room. Of them all, Santana seemed to be the angriest, her whole stance closed and hostile. Quinn didn't blame her, not really, for she deserved every ounce of fury. With every secret, a thread of trust snapped, and Quinn wondered whether, at the end of this slow torture, she would unravel entirely, a mess of organs and vessels with no soul to hold them together.

'He…' Quinn hesitated.

The grey-eyed man met her gaze, almost challenging her to speak. Dark blood across a concrete floor. The image still came to her so readily. The sound of the gunshot ringing in her ears. The guilt had lingered, within her, for years. She could never quite shake it.

'He manipulated me,' she said evasively.

'He wanted you close,' the grey-eyed man stated, 'he loved you.'

Quinn shook her head.

'He wanted to control me,' she replied, and thinking now over the mess that his influence had unleashed upon her life, Quinn realised that he had controlled her nonetheless. His power was far reaching.

She leant back against the wall, feeling the cool of it steady at her back; the unyielding strength of the stones beneath.

'I didn't hear from him for years,' she reflected, thinking wistfully of how quickly time had passed, of those days that had seemed so hopeful still.

Without intending to, she found her gaze drawn to Rachel, to those familiar warm brown eyes. It was as though she were looking at her through a pane of glass; the barriers that separated them now may be invisible but they were utterly impenetrable. If she could go back… if she had made different decisions… Quinn shook her head to clear her thoughts.

'Then one night, a few years ago,' Quinn exhaled slowly, 'he begged me to help him… he told me that he had a son. That his son was hurt, here, in New York.'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2022. <strong>

'_Keep talking to him,' Quinn ordered, the agitation tight in her voice. The night was dark as she stepped out into it, breaking into a run. The glow of the lights from within the hospital illuminated the puddles on the asphalt. _

'_Try to keep him awake.'_

_She ran towards the front of the ER, her shoes splashing in the puddles. The rain had stopped, but the damp of it was still thick in the air._

'_We're coming down Parkway…' he told her._

_She slowed as she reached the front of the hospital, squinting out into the night. _

'_The men that did this,' his voice was far away as he spoke, but the warning was clear, 'the men that did this, Quinn, are not far behind me…'_

'_Just get him here,' she instructed, taking a breath of the cool air to steady herself. 'I'm outside the front of the ER.'_

_She glanced up to the sky, squinting her eyes to see if she could make out any stars behind the thick cloud. There were none; the great expanse of the soulless sky stretching out above her. _

_Only moments later the dark SUV careened around the corner, brakes screeching. A passenger door flew open and John's body half fell towards the ground._

_Quinn stepped forwards, stretching her arms out automatically to try to catch him, or at least break his fall. He was heavy in her arms, a deadweight, and she was not strong enough to hold him. She gently lowered him to the ground in her arms, looking up to meet the grey eyes of the man in the driving seat._

'_I don't want to leave him, but…' he started. _

'_Just go,' Quinn cut him off, already feeling the warmth of the blood coating her hands, 'go, now.'_

_And he did, but Quinn barely noticed the car leave, her attention focussed instead on her brother, his green eyes open, staring up at her. There was a flicker of recognition. Quinn felt her throat start to burn. Instead of the usual clinical detachment, she felt stunned, staring back at him. _

_Taking a deep breath she shouted for help, shouted at the top of her voice, and rapidly the emergency personnel swarmed out through the doors of the ER to aid her. They worked quickly together to lift him to a gurney, rushing him through the sliding doors, into the cold, clinical light of the hospital. Quinn ran with them, her hand on his arm. On autopilot as she directed them._

_John's green eyes never left her face._

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

'…I didn't know that I had a brother,' Quinn said quietly, after the long explanation of what she had done in the Bronx motel, 'not until that night.'

Rachel wrapped her arms about herself as she listened, trying to focus on the rhythm of her own breathing. She felt nauseated by what she had heard, by the quiet revelations. Mafia and murder, fathers and brothers… secret liaisons in the middle of the night… it all sounded so implausible, so unlikely, and yet every whispered word was heavy and final, as though they knew that they could never be unsaid. Nails in a coffin, hammered relentlessly into place.

'What's he like?' Jasper asked.

It was the first time that the photographer had spoken since sitting down and Rachel had almost forgotten that he was beside her. Somehow, in the emotional upheaval, she and Jasper had ended up in close proximity, their shoulders almost touching. While Santana stood aggressively near to the door, and Brittany was curled into the corner of the couch, silent tears wet on her cheeks. Quinn looked up to meet his gaze and for the first time since she had started speaking, emotion seemed to twist on her features, a war between her desperation for control and what lay beneath.

'He's…' she started, pausing on the word that seemed to want to choke her, 'he's dead.'

Her breathing was becoming uneven, and Rachel yearned to reach out towards her. It was like a crack of light breaking through the hard shell, and she was suddenly and powerfully reminded of the woman beneath. Of that vulnerability that she held so close.

'A year later,' Quinn said finally, 'he was attacked again. Stabbed… in the chest.'

Her throat closed up around the words, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. Even if she had wanted to go on, she couldn't. She couldn't speak anymore.

'Two days before you left,' Santana's voice had lost the hostility she had spoken with before, but now the words were flat, devoid of emotion. Pieces of the puzzle were slotting into place, one by one. Santana hoped that she was wrong. Hoped that Quinn opened her mouth and contradicted her… but Quinn just met her gaze, her eyes sharpening at the comment in a way that made Santana realise that she was right. Right about that, and all the horrible implications.

'It was January 30th,' the Latina stated, 'wasn't it?'

Rachel looked between them in confusion, her pulse starting to race.

'2022?'

Santana raised her chin a fraction, daring Quinn to contradict her.

'You were working in Queens,' the Latina stated certainly, her voice chilling, 'and he came to you… Outside the hospital... That man was your brother.'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2022.<strong>

'_Monitoring!' the ER charge nurse was directing from the side as they arrived in the resuscitation bay, the familiar controlled chaos of the trauma call. 'Cut off those clothes, now.'_

_Quinn was on autopilot as she connected the oxygen, placing the mask over his mouth. His breathing was fast and shallow, the pallor of his skin even more stark in the cold light of the resus bay. She flicked her stethoscope off her shoulders, listening quickly to his chest as one of the ER staff quickly cut through the blood stained shirt with thick scissors, peeling it off him. The blood was clotting in thick, stringy lumps, bubbling from the multiple wounds across his chest. _

_She didn't look down into John's eyes before they fluttered closed again, she was too afraid to in case it undid her completely. He didn't re-open them. _

_She stood at the head of the bed, reaching for the gloves to protect her from his blood. His skin was cold and clammy, his lips pale._

'_Emily – get wide bore access, send off urgent labs and run a VBG,' she instructed, pointing at one of the junior doctors, 'Vivek – we need six units of O-neg blood now. Get the on-call cardiothoracic team here. Someone grab the thoracotomy tray.'_

_She pressed the pulp of her finger to his neck, feeling for the weak and thready pulsation of his carotid. A slow dread was trickling through her. A fear that threatened to paralyse her. _

_She looked up to the monitor. Tachycardic. Hypotensive. Desaturating._

'_John. Come on, John…'_

_He was making no response any more, no flicker even of his eyelids. _

'_He's dropping his GCS. We need to RSI,' she said to the charge nurse, holding the mask tightly around his mouth and squeezing the bag, watching the monitor as his saturations started to plateau and then climb again, 'I need thiopental, rocuronium and fentanyl, please? Vivek – give some metaraminol and squeeze that blood in STAT. He has no circulating volume.'_

_The seconds seemed to drag on, each one of them. At the edges of her tight control, Quinn started to notice the details, the flickers of her own desperation. _

_John's hair was dark, so dark compared to her own. He sported tattoos across his chest, the intricate design dark against his pale skin, the bright blood a stark contrast. Her eyes lingered briefly on the scar across his abdomen, thick and fading, from where she had sutured him in that Motel room up in the Bronx…_

'_Size 8 tube?'_

_Quinn's eyes flicked up to the oxygen saturations again. _

'_Please,' she nodded as the charge nurse prepared for the intubation, each movement quick and efficient. They had worked together for the last week, and become like a well-oiled machine, acutely aware of each other's movements. 'Ready?'_

_The rapid sequence induction was quick and easy; Quinn passed the ET tube down through the vocal cords with no difficulty, careful not to focus on him to intently. She knew that if she stopped to think about who he was then she would freeze. _

_It was as she was tying the tube in place that she saw the tall, broad man hovering at the doorway, watching her. She met his gaze with surprise, not so much because of the fact that he was clearly not part of the medical team, but more because he was smirking. Smirking at her. _

'_You can't be in here,' she called out firmly._

_At which, he simply smiled. _

_John's blood pressure was starting to fall, the blood soaking through the gauze pads they had been pressing onto his wounds. _

'_Someone get him out of here!' the charge nurse ordered, waving the man away. _

'_Metaraminol, Vivek.'_

_Marcus, the cardiothoracic attending burst through the doors. He took one look at John before looking up at Quinn. _

'_I can see why you called me,' he said dryly. _

'_Thirty-something year old male; multiple penetrating stab wounds to the chest,' she started, 'hypotensive, tachycardic – massive extrathoracic haemorrhage… his total circulating volume is on the floor, Marcus. He's peri-arrest... we need to open the chest…'_

'_Agreed,' he nodded, rushing to gown-up quickly._

'_Blood pressure's dropping.'_

'_Keep squeezing in the O-neg,' Quinn instructed, trying to quell the rising panic within her. The steely calm that she was so famous for in the ER was starting to waver. She didn't want to look down at John's expressionless face, didn't want to see the features so similar to her own. _

'_The pulse is weak,' Vivek was squashing the blood units with one hands, his dark eyes darting between Quinn and the screen as he kept a finger on John's femoral pulse. _

'_Can you still feel a pulse?' Quinn demanded, watching the surgeon out of the corner of her eye as he prepared quickly. Everything else was a temporising measure until he performed the emergency thoracotomy and could try to find the source of the bleeding, but even then the odds were not great. _

'_I…' Vivek started, his expression undecided. 'I can't feel it.'_

_Quinn felt her frustration rise, pressing her finger to the carotid. _

_Nothing. _

_Fuck it, John._

'_Adrenaline,' she ordered, her voice tight, 'start chest compressions.'_

_Someone stepped forward immediately, arms straight, clasped fists at the centre of John's chest and started the jerky compressions. It felt surreal to watch, and Quinn wished that she could avert her eyes. She was starting to feel as though she was disconnecting from reality, watching the situation from above rather than being a part of it. _

_It was only for a second, but it was probably in that second that Quinn started to appreciate death. Respect it. Of course, she had more first-hand experience of death than most people… she had seen the death of patients, both old and young, strangers who came through the hospital doors, each with a story to be told. She knew death, she met with him daily within these walls, danced this familiar dance with him again and again. Sometimes he lost, sometimes he won. _

_In her heart, she had probably known that John would die from the moment that he had landed in her arms, outside the hospital. She should have known, for both of their lives had been hopeless from the start. _

_Quinn felt numb as she watched, watched as Marcus opened the chest, watched as he placed his hand within. She already knew that it was too late. The frustration on his face matched her own as he buried his hand within John's chest, starting to perform internal cardiac massage. _

_They worked for another twenty minutes, a growing sense of hopelessness enveloping them._

'_There is just nothing in the heart to squeeze,' Marcus growled through his mask. _

_Quinn gritted her teeth against the inevitable. _

'_More fluids…' she ordered. _

'_It's too late…' the surgeon argued. _

'_He's young,' she objected. _

'_He's dead.' _

_A tense silence followed his statement, his eyes locked with the hazel eyed resident. In her heart, she knew that it was true. She had known it from the start, but the reality of stopping, the silence that followed, was too much. _

_Quinn exhaled slowly. Their eyes were on her, waiting for her to speak. Hanging on her for leadership._

'_Appropriate to…' she said finally, her throat burning, 'appropriate to discontinue… is everyone in agreement?'_

_Around the room, the ER staff had slowed their movements, standing still in the awkward silence that ensued. Each nodded in turn. Reluctantly, Quinn turned to switch off the oxygen from the wall and Marcus removed his gloved hand from John's bloody chest._

'_Time of death,' she stated emotionlessly, '23:48.'_

_She switched off the monitor. Marcus snapped off his gloves, throwing them into the open bin in the corner of the room with irritation. __Quinn folded her arms across her chest, feeling the rising distress within her, her eyes fixed on the body. _

_The surgeon sighed, rolling his shoulders._

'_Win some, lose some,' he said finally, slapping her on the back comradely as he headed towards the door. _

_Quinn nodded, not trusting herself to speak._

_The walls seemed to be closing in around her, the bright lights glinting off the metal and the cold, clinical white of the walls. _

'_Can I have a moment?' she asked finally, not looking up at the others in the room. _

'_Are you ok?' the charge nurse asked, concerned. _

'_I'm… I'm fine,' Quinn lied. 'I just… I need a moment.'_

_Even as they filed out of the room, she stayed frozen in the same position, her arms wrapped around herself, her breath burning in her lungs as she tried to control herself. _

_It looked like a massacre; the stark red blood soaked through the sheets of the bed, and pooled on the floor. The cuts across his chest had finally stopped bleeding. Just as his heart had stopped beating. _

_She felt the tears in her eyes, and brushed them furiously away with the back of her hand. She drew a ragged breath that, even to her ears, sounded almost like a wail. It hurt; it physically hurt within her. Molten anguish that burned in her veins, in her lungs, everywhere. Never before had a death felt so personal, so close. But now the face below her was almost her own. _

_She ran her hand across his hair, the unnatural cold of his skin beneath her touch, unreal. Now that it was over, she let herself start to cry, let herself crumple beneath the weight of what she had done... of what she had failed to do._

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading – please review.<p> 


	22. A black mark

AN: thank you to everyone who is still reading this, and especially to everyone who has reviewed. Last of the talking in this chapter – and then we will be getting on with the story again. Warning: talk of violence.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 22 – A black mark <span>

**New York. Present.**

Rachel felt torn, the edges raw within her.

'…there was nothing that we could do. I know that… It was hopeless from the start.'

Her eyes had not left Quinn's face as she spoke in a voice so clear and detached that Rachel almost did not recognise it. It was the voice from that quiet, dark place within her; hollow and haunted and somehow timeless. Rachel associated that sound with the darkness, with the times that she had woken in the middle of the night and found Quinn by the window of their bedroom, looking out into the moonless sky. It was with that cool, abstracted voice that the blonde would answer her questions; a voice that had frightened her with how careful it was. It cast a spell over them all, entranced them.

'I failed him. I couldn't save him.'

Though every fibre of her wanted to cross the distance to her ex-, Rachel felt paralysed, and confused. It felt too late, now, for comfort, and any comfort she offered would seem false. Quinn had watched her brother die over two years ago. Rachel felt her heart twist a little at the heavy thought. She had watched her brother die, and she had made the choice to leave rather than turn to her partner for support. The trust between them, the bond between them... the relationship that Rachel had always felt was so open and close and strong. Quinn had chosen not to tell her; Quinn had chosen to turn away. To leave. That cut was worse than the rest, more painful.

But even before that? Everything she had known about the woman before her was wrong, built on false foundations. Those depths… those dark depths that she had skirted around, that she had tried to probe but failed… they were so much deeper than she had ever imagined them to be, the secrets so much darker. Anger smouldered within Rachel, an anger she felt would never leave as it seeped into her very bones. The betrayal ran deep, underpinning everything that they had ever had together.

'I failed him too, Quinn,' Roy's voice was quiet, and Rachel felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise again in apprehension, 'I failed you.'

The blonde held herself so motionlessly that Rachel thought that she may have stopped breathing altogether.

'Why didn't you tell us?' Brittany's question was pleading and raw, 'why hide it for so long? Why hide it from _us_, Quinn?'

For the first time since she had entered the house to confront the taller blonde, Quinn let her gaze shift to Brittany. Honesty was hard to muster, but it was there, in her eyes. The years had weighed on her, all the years of carrying it alone. But it had been for her, and only her. From the night of the fire Quinn had walked alone, despite the people who loved and wanted to support her. She took a breath, and just from the ragged way in which she inhaled, Rachel realised that she was not quite as detached from the situation as she was trying to be. The knife seemed to twist within Rachel once more.

'You didn't have to run away,' Brittany whispered. Tears were wet on her face, the large blue eyes wide. Crying had always come easiest to B; she wore her emotions like a banner on her sleeve. Quinn seemed to pause, holding that gaze for a fraction too long.

'I would have, B,' she murmured earnestly, the emotion adding colour to her tone. 'I would have… But that wasn't all that happened that night…'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2022.<strong>

_When she finally gained control over herself again, the first thing she noticed was that her eyelids were feeling strangely swollen. Everything looked so stark and surreal under the fluorescent lights, so coldly clinical… usually that was a relief, the clinical detachment, but tonight everything was different. Tonight the lights cut through her. She closed her eyes against the glare and took a steadying breath, wishing that the smell of his blood was not lingering so sweetly in the stillness._

_All she could wish for was Rachel's arms around her, small but strong and steady. Rachel... Rachel. The thought of her, as always, calmed Quinn's racing heart; anchored her to reality. She may be broken and bleeding and crushed… she could be half dead, but if Rachel could love her… if Rachel could still love her then all was not lost. She was a crack of sunlight through the dark._

_Quinn turned away before she opened her eyes, took her hand from John's cooling skin and walked to the door without looking back. _

_Outside the resuscitation bay, the ER was in its usual organised chaos. Across the room Quinn could see Marcus with two police officers, discussing and filling out the usual paperwork. She felt a small measure of relief that he had taken the responsibility to do it, for, at this moment in time, she wasn't certain how well she would hold up. _

_A hand rested on her arm and she glanced up at the man that it belonged to. _

'_You okay?' Vivek asked as he passed her. _

_There were many answers to that question, none of them good. Instead, Quinn shrugged her shoulders, shaking her head. _

'_I'm going home,' she answered honestly. _

_She walked numbly away from him, cutting through the people whose faces all blurred together. She needed to get away, far away from the people, the chaos. She walked steadily through the crowd and into the lonely emptiness of the long dark corridors, climbing the three floors towards the locker room. _

_It was empty when she got there and she was on autopilot as she fiddled with the code to her locker, slamming it shut again behind her. She carried her clothes through to the bathroom to get changed, placing them on the stool in the corner before looking at herself in the mirror. _

_The familiar face stared back at her. The same high cheekbones and hazel eyes. Quinn Fabray. She took a shaky breath as she watched herself in the mirror, seeing and not seeing herself. Lucy Quinn Fabray. The personal loss ran deep, the guilt even deeper, and tonight, even her lips looked pale and ghostly. How many more people would die? How many more people would she lose? She stared into her own eyes seeking answers she would not find. How many more people would she fail? _

_The nausea was rising in her throat. _

_The blue material of her scrubs was dark with his blood. She turned the tap to run the hot water into the basin, slowly peeling off the top and pants to change into the comfortable clothes she had worn to drive to the hospital. Everything felt so surreal. So wrong. So cold. She shrugged on her jacket, zipping her phone and ID badge into the pocket, before placing her hands beneath the flowing water._

_It was hot on her hands, almost scalding in its intensity, but there was something strangely therapeutic about the heat of it. She closed her eyes to splash the water on her face, immersed in the stunned numbness of her emotional state. She reached blindly for the paper towels to dry herself and it was as she blinked open her eyes that she saw him._

'_You can't…' she started, recognising the man's reflection in the mirror. He was tall and broad, the hard angles of his face as rough as a tree bark. His eyes held the stillness of a predator, his lips the same smirk that he had worn as he watched her try to resuscitate John. He had watched her in the resus room; he had been smiling. The hairs rose across her skin. _

_The knife was glinting like a thin beam of silver in his hand. _

_Quinn's blood ran cold, and he could see it in her eyes. The fear. The sudden awareness of her own mortality._

'_I can't what?' he echoed darkly._

_She didn't answer, her eyes fixed on him. Her body stilled. _

_Quinn knew she was trapped. He blocked the only exit from the room._

'_Who are you?' she asked softly, her voice sounding steadier to her ears than she thought would be possible. _

'_No,' he tutted his tongue against his teeth, those hard eyes flashing, 'that is my question.'_

_The knife glinted in the light; the same knife that had killed John. Her eyes could not help but focus on it._

'_Who,' he stepped closer, 'are you?'_

_The speed of her heart felt like the beating of wings, powerful wings that threatened to rip her apart. Strangely, it was a question she had asked herself many times before now. A question to which she still had no firm answer. Identity. Belonging. These were things that left her unsteady. Questions to which she had no answer._

'_I have hunted…' his voice was deep, hoarse and intense in the way that every word was weighed for its significance. His lips curled. 'I have hunted Johnny Quinn for three years... but I have never seen you… not until tonight. You were waiting for him. Outside the hospital. You…'_

_He pointed the sharp tip of the blade at her. _

'_He came to you,' the man continued, 'as he was dying... You. You have his cursed eyes.'_

_He took another step, his hard eyes narrowing. Quinn felt frozen in place, not just numb but paralysed. He was almost within arms-reach and she could see no way, no way, to get out. The smile that seemed to relax his features only intensified the fear, something in the way that he was looking at her._

'_How well they kept you a secret,' he said, almost to himself._

_Her breath was shallow, her mind blank and yet racing. He was so big; a wall of muscle. It was with a cold certainty that she knew that any scuffle between them would end with her dead. _

_But she could see no way out._

'_You're a Quinn,' he said quietly. Certainly. _

_Sickness rose within her. _

'_I don't know what you're talking about,' she managed to croak out, her tongue thick in her mouth. _

_He almost laughed, watching her closely._

'_Yes,' he smiled that cold smile once more, 'yes, you do.'_

_He stepped towards her, and Quinn instinctively stepped back, her leg knocking against the stool in the corner of the bathroom. The wall was at her back, the sink by her side. There was nowhere to run to. Nowhere to go. _

'_Mickey Quinn. Black-marked Mickey Quinn. There will be no more Quinns; no more of his line,' his eyebrows drew together, almost thought fully. 'How strange that I have been so patient in hunting Johnny, only to have you offered up to me on the same night… he hid you well. But not well enough.'_

_He started to methodically roll up the sleeves of his shirt, his forearms as thick as branches, revealing a tattoo that twisted up around his wrist like a dark snake. _

'_Life shall go for life,' he said quietly, 'eye for eye; tooth for tooth; hand for hand… foot for foot.'_

_Years of wearing a cross about her neck, years of attending church with her mother, with her sister… with Russell Fabray at her side. Faith had twisted and turned for Quinn; her faith in people and in God… If she believed in something now then it was a personal and indefinable belief, and in this moment she clung to it. She clung to it and started to pray. _

'_The boss charged me to bring him Mickey Quinn's eyes,' he was close to her, not quite touching yet, but hemming her in, 'but yours, my beautiful, beautiful girl, yours will do for now…' _

_As he moved towards her, something within Quinn snapped; for what was about to happen to her appeared inescapable... but if death was as inevitable as it seemed, then she knew that she would rather die fighting him. _

_The sound of the door to the locker room slamming open was enough for him to take his eyes off her for a split second, and it was all that she needed, the only chance she had._

_Quinn threw herself straight into him, keeping as far from that knife as she could. It was desperation that flung her body forwards and though he swung to grab at her, his hand grasped only at her hair. He ripped a chunk of it from her head, but it barely slowed her down. _

_A second man had entered the locker room and she ducked from his reach, sliding on the floor as she tried to turn the corner, crashing into the lockers themselves. She scrambled for the fire-escape, her own momentum causing her to slip and fall as the door swung open out onto the platform… Falling at that moment probably saved her life, for the gunshot rang out loudly, the bullet embedding itself in the fire door. _

_There were no thoughts in her head as she pushed herself across the steel grating, falling down the old stairs with the gunshots ring out above her. They were so loud in her ears that she felt that her eardrums would burst with the sound of them. _

_The rain had started again, pummelling the asphalt, but Quinn barely noticed it. The adrenaline that coursed through her shut down every thought and feeling, but for the need to run. The crashing sound of the steel was loud in her ears, but the blood rushing in her arteries was louder still. _

_She twisted and turned as she leaped down the unsteady stairs, feeling the vibrations of the men above as they chased after her. Throwing herself onto the sliding ladder that dangled above the ground, her grip slipped on the wet rails and she fell the last few feet to the unforgiving stone below. _

_The impact knocked the wind from her lungs and for a moment Quinn was stunned, lying on the hard ground, the rain cold and slick on her skin as she looked up. The two men were close, and getting closer still, the night sky stretching out in its immensity beyond. It was as though time slowed for her and everything that had happened, every choice that she had made… they stilled. Rachel. Santana. Brittany. Jasper. Carlos... John. Mickey. Russell… Frannie… Her mother. Quinn let her eyes blink closed. _

_That desire to live still burned so strongly within her. _

_The pause lasted barely a heartbeat before she twisted herself around, scrambling to get her feet back under her to run... The gunshot rang out behind her. She weaved close to the wall, into the shadows, running for the end of the road. The bullets, in quick succession, fragmented the bricks of the wall. One… two… three… The breath burned in her throat, the lactic acid in her muscles... but she would not stop. Could not. _

_In the rain, Quinn ran. She ran. And she ran…_

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

Even Santana had sunk down to the floor as she listened, the heavy silence settling over them. Realising, slowly, just how close she had been to losing Quinn. To losing her forever.

It was a world away from the world that they lived in. It was a world she had never encountered before and, up until a few weeks ago she would have happily denied the existence of such people, that anyone could perform such actions. But now…

'That night,' Rachel's voice was barely above a whisper and yet it rang out loudly in the silence that followed. 'That night… you never came home.'

Quinn's eyes were bright with unshed tears as she finally met Rachel's gaze. The implications, of course, for the two of them were clear. Rachel's eyes were burning into her own, smouldering with an anger of an intensity that was unsettling. That night, Quinn had not returned home; the next night she had told the singer of her fictitious infidelity, and within twenty-four hours, she had left New York. She had run. She had hurt Rachel irreparably. Then she had run. Wordlessly, Quinn shook her head, not trusting herself at this moment to speak.

That night she had made a choice, a choice whose consequences had ripped through all of their lives; a choice that Quinn had lived with for two years.

'I was afraid,' she finally admitted quietly, 'I was afraid that they would follow me, that they would be able to follow me… I was afraid that I would lead them to you. I wasn't thinking clearly... I was afraid…'

The admission was hard to say, but harder still to hear.

'So you ran.' Rachel's cold words were a statement and not a question, not just regarding that night, but the months that followed, then the years. In many ways Quinn had never really stopped running.

She nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

'From alley way to alley way…' the blonde replied softly. 'It was raining so hard; I was soaked to the bone… but I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop to think. So I kept going…'

She took a deep breath, breaking that painful gaze and turning away from the woman that she had loved for so long. She had said that she would tell them the truth; that she would tell them all of it, but every sentence became more difficult to speak.

'Eventually, I reached a motel,' Quinn said gravely, her mind drifting back, once more, to the events of that night. 'It was the early hours of the morning by then… I checked in under an alias. Paid in cash… Went into the room and locked the door…'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2022. <strong>

_The locks clicked shut. _

_The chain slid across the door, guided by shaky fingers... _

_She didn't turn on the lights, moving quickly across the room to pull the curtains closed, before turning to the mattress and pulling the bed-sheets from it onto the floor. She kicked them into the small gap between the bed and the wall, knowing immediately that it would be the only place that she would feel even remotely safe. If Quinn had stopped to think about it then she may have felt that her actions were childish, for she knew that hiding down beside the bed would leave her as vulnerable as being anywhere else in the room if her assailants entered it with a gun, or a knife, but there was no rational thought to her actions. _

_The frenzy of activity lasted only thirty seconds, then, finally, she stood still, trembling in her soaked clothes._

_The rain water dripped to the carpet floor, and beneath the cold clothes, Quinn started to shake. The sob that ripped itself from her, in the darkness, was raw. Desperate. _

_It was as though the sudden stillness had allowed reality to catch up with her, and all its terrible realities, all the horrifying events of the night… Quinn pressed the heals of her palms against her eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears that seemed determined to fall. The tension that had held her together for the last few hours was starting to melt, and with it, she started to crumble. _

_Years ago, when she was eight years old, Lucy Fabray had run away from home. Her mother had been away and had left the two girls alone with their father who had always been so strict about who they were allowed to see and befriend. He prefered to keep his children safe, but isolated, within his house. It should have been no surprise to Lucy when he had refused to let her see "that Lopez-girl" again, but she was furious at him for his decision and, without the tempering prescence of her mother, had made her feelings on the subject known. Lucy, whose loyalty to Santana had been cemented after yet another playground scuffle, had been sent to her room after throwing a tantrum about the injustice of it all. _

_Her decision to run away had been made solemnly and angrily, looking out into the scary darkness of the night. She had been methodical in what she had packed to take with her; two pairs of underwear, one of her mother's old sweaters and her teddy-bear. Climbing from her window in the middle of the night would have caused her mother to have a fit had she known, but Lucy didn't particularly care… for, at the moment, her mother wasn't around. She was a good climber, her room only on the first floor, and by the time that her feet hit the ground, the fury had started to melt away._

_She had set off in the direction of Santana's house, with no real concept of distance or time, but as she walked, the roads became less familiar and more confusing. By the time that it started to rain, Lucy knew that she was definitely lost and as stubborn as she was, she was becoming progressively frightened. After what had seemed like hours to the little girl, a stranger, that Lucy should have known better than to talk to, had insisted on taking her either home, or to the police station. It was lucky for her that Dr Lopez was well known within the area, and before long Lucy had found herself soaked to the bone within the Lopez hallway, her teeth chattering. The experience of running away had been terrifying for her, but it was only as Maribel Lopez pulled her into her arms, scolding her furiously in a mixture of English and Spanish as she hugged her fiercely, that Lucy had let the tears start to fall. _

_In the darkness of the damp motel room, Quinn felt the tears on her cheeks. _

_Slowly she started to peel off the wet clothes, wrapping a rough towel about her as she hung them up to dry on the bathroom radiator. She towel dried her hair a little, her scalp tender and bleeding from where he had ripped out her hair. _

_Keeping her mind purposefully blank, Quinn tiptoed over to the gap by the bed and, without a thought, settled down to the floor, wrapping the cool sheets around her as she huddled against the mattress. It didn't really make her feel more secure, the trembling of her hands only intensifying. She leant her head against the side of the bed, wrapping the sheets tightly about her and letting her eyes finally drift shut._

_Instead of all the dark images that threatened to assail her, Quinn held onto the one thing that had never failed her. The warmth of Rachel's embrace seemed to surround her. Quinn frowned in thought, squeezing her eyes tightly together. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost feel the soft strength of her girlfriend's arms, holding her tightly. Warmth slowly seeping into her frozen skin. Her unsteady breathing started to slow. A crack of light through the blackest of nights; that was Rachel, it always had been. _

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

'You should have gone to the police,' Jasper's voice was rough as he spoke, misplaced anger and uncertainty. 'You should have gone to the police, Quinn. That is what they are there for…'

But Quinn had finally given up speaking; the words had all dried up. It was over now. She was done.

'I warned her not to.'

Again, it was the scarred man in the corner of the room who answered for the broken blonde. He stepped forward, as though realising that it was time; time for them to hear the rest, to complete the picture.

'She wouldn't have survived for five minutes if she had gone to the police,' he continued dispassionately.

Santana's dark gaze snapped onto him, her eyes narrowing. She looked like a trapped animal, broken and afraid, but all the more fierce for it.

'Why not?' the Latina growled.

'Because there is corruption everywhere,' he explained, 'especially in New York City. They would have found her and killed her within an hour of her stepping into a police station…'

He looked back to Quinn and saw the almost imperceptible nod of her chin, indicating for him to go on. Her sad eyes fixed somewhere on the middle distance, far away. It was time to finish this, to finally wipe the slate clean.

'The men that attacked Quinn, were the same men who killed Johnny,' he said slowly, 'the same men who have been hunting down any relation of Mickey Quinn for the last five years... Quinn is the only one left.'

'But why?' Brittany whispered pleadingly, cutting him off. 'I don't understand why…'

'Does it matter why?' Jasper asked softly.

'I'm sure that you have figured out, by now, who the men were that attacked her?'

Santana's expression darkened, her strength had melted as Quinn had spoken and now she felt weak and broken on the floor. It was so unbelievable that she knew that it was true, every twisted word of the story.

'Joe Waters,' she answered in a voice that was not her own.

Three sets of eyes looked at her sharply and even Quinn allowed an eyebrow to rise in surprise. Never underestimate Santana Lopez; she should have learnt that lesson years ago.

'_The_ Joe Waters?' Jasper echoed.

Now that name _was_ infamous. From the day of his arrest, his name had been printed in bold, black-on-white letters within the papers, his face splashed across the news; those cold, killing eyes staring out of the pages.

'And Daniel Holbrook,' Roy agreed coolly. 'They were hitmen for the Lucchese family; one of the big crime families in New York.'

'I don't get it,' Jasper stood up abruptly, his words clipped. Somehow as the explanation had gone on, his fear for Quinn, his anger at her actions and the injustice of what had occurred had just galvanised him. 'I don't get it. _Why_ are they trying to kill her? _Why Quinn?_'

'It's a long story.'

'We have all day,' Jasper challenged the other man irritably.

Roy snorted, looking the younger man up and down slowly, as though he were weighing him up. Though Jasper was well built, he knew that he could snap the photographer's neck in minutes if he wanted to.

'We were working with them,' he started slowly, 'with the Lucchese and the Gambino families. Interstate… _operations_.'

'Prostitution and drugs,' Santana muttered darkly.

'Amongst other things,' Roy agreed. 'There was a meeting, five years ago. Tensions were high and Mickey lost his temper; the underboss of the Lucchese was killed, along with others.'

Quinn took a deep breath, turning back towards the window to look at the outside world. She had heard these words on that night two years before, had heard them when Roy had come to her in that motel room.

Her thoughts turned from the past to the present, to the mess that she now found herself in. She felt anxious, agitated. With Joe Waters out in the world, and her name and image so available, she had no doubt that he would soon be onto her; it was only a matter of time. The clock ticked slowly on.

'The boss of the Lucchese issued the black mark against Mickey in retaliation; to not only kill him but to destroy his line. His family.' The man's grey eyes focussed on the blonde, her back to him once more. 'And they did. His elderly mother. Then his brother, and his son… Joe Waters is a hunter, patient, incredibly patient, and very, very smart. He's psychotic... a serial killer.'

The silence was tense, waiting for him to go on.

'I went to Quinn that night, in that motel room,' he said slowly. Rachel looked up sharply, her dark eyes flicking between the blonde and the scarred man; she wasn't sure how much more of this she could take. How many more convoluted twists and turns. 'I went to her, and I told her everything… about her father, about John... About the choice she would have to make.'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2022. <strong>

'_He won't give up,' the grey-eyed man was sitting on the edge of the bare mattress, evaluating the girl before him. When he had first met Mickey's daughter at the funeral, he had been impressed by her cold stoicism. Then later, in the basement in Chicago, the night that Mickey had, once again, lost his temper... This girl… he shook his head, correcting himself, this woman... She had something to her; she was a survivor, a fighter. _

'_Until he finds me,' Quinn murmured hollowly. _

'_Until he kills you,' he corrected her. _

_He had no time for subtlety tonight, for Johnny was already dead. His bleeding body had been so heavy as he had dragged it into the car. And now Joe Waters was closing in on Quinn... The mistakes of the night weighed heavily upon him. _

'_I don't…' Quinn's words were lost, the reality not quite sinking in. 'I don't even understand how he… how he knew. He just knew that I...'_

_She wrapped the sheets tighter around herself. _

'_For the last five years, he has obsessed over the Quinns,' he replied flatly, 'he is psychotic. Isolated. Obsessive. He enjoys the hunt even more than the kill… and I took him to you. I took him straight to you, Quinn.'_

_He didn't apologise, for the words were empty, even to his ears. In twenty-four hours, her world had changed, and would never, ever be the same again._

_She stared ahead, drained of everything._

'_So what…' she started, her words clipped, 'what do I do?'_

_In the silence, she turned to look at him, her eyes hard with anger. _

'_What the fuck do I do?' she demanded. 'He tried to kill me. He fucking tried to kill me tonight… I barely… I…'_

_Finally, the numbness and shock was starting to recede, and in its place, her anger burned brightly. _

'_You tell me that I am dead if I go to the police,' she stated darkly, 'and that I am dead if I don't. So what do I do? What the fuck do I do?'_

_He let her anger wash over him, watching her steadily. There was only one real option in his mind, surely she could see that too?_

'_You come to Chicago.'_

_Quinn folded her arms across her chest, exhaling sharply. _

'_Chicago?' she echoed. _

'_You come to Chicago. You acknowledge your relationship with Mickey… it is the only way that he can even start to protect you.'_

'_Protect me? Protect me?' she laughed humourlessly, 'he is the one that will kill me. Everyone dies because of him. My sister. My mother. Russell Fabray… John! He couldn't even protect his own son.'_

_The tears were stinging again in her eyes, the hopelessness of it all crushing down on her. She felt as trapped as she had been in that bathroom, in the hospital, but now the fear made her nauseous, the adrenaline gone._

'_I wanted nothing to do with him,' she said darkly. 'I still want nothing to do with him.'_

_He leant back against the headboard of the bed, watching her closely._

'_But you can't stay,' he stated softly. _

_Her hazel eyes turned to him, almost beseechingly. _

'_My life is here,' she whispered, 'my career, my friends, my family… my family.'_

_It struck her then, as powerfully as it had struck her when she had been running, that it was over. All over. For she had already made the choice. She had made the choice when she had decided not to go home to her apartment. She had made that choice so carelessly, without even thinking._

'_He will hurt them, won't he?' she said quietly. _

'_Joe Waters?' he asked with a frown creasing his brow. _

'_Rachel,' Quinn replied, the heat of her anger starting to cool again. 'If I stay… if I stay, and he finds me…'_

_Rachel, whose career was just taking off. Rachel, who was ever more visible in the media, in the press. Rachel, who had always been beside her, in both reality and unreality... It conjured dark feelings in Quinn to even think of her hurt. To blink her eyes shut and see John's bloody body under those cold, clinical lights… to see Rachel's face there instead. Or Santana's. Or Brittany's. Of all the people who had died. Of all the people who could…_

'_What do I do?' the plea was soft. _

_She shook her head, her blonde hair still damp from the rain. _

'_I can't let him hurt her... I can't let him hurt any of them.'_

_He took a deep breath, reaching the same conclusion that she had. The same conclusion that he knew that she was afraid to voice. _

'_Then you have to go.'_

_Quinn was still shaking her head, her eyes closing. _

'_To run away?' she asked quietly, 'vanish?'_

'_Disappear,' he agreed softly. 'If you stay, it is only a matter of time... He knows that you are a doctor. He knows your face. He is a patient man, Quinn… he will find you. All he needs is your name, and he will find you.'_

_Her nails were digging into her numb skin. She thought of Santana, of their conversation on the roof. She thought of the rings she had bought, of the life that had seemed so close… _

'_She will never let me go,' Quinn whispered, her thoughts far away. Rachel. Stubborn, passionate, beautiful… She could read Quinn in a flash. It had always been that way. But then telling her? Dragging her into this? Ruining her life as well?_

_Quinn looked so fragile there, so vulnerable. Not ready to make this choice. _

'_Then,' he replied gently, 'you have to make her.'_

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading – please review.<p> 


	23. To run and to hide

Chapter 23 - To run and hide

**Lima. 2004**

'_Lucy…' Santana objected, 'we shouldn't…'_

_The smaller blonde sent her a hard look that made the Latina bristle. Santana usually prided herself on being braver than any of her classmates; she was not afraid, not afraid of anything… But the cold look on Judy Fabray's face when she had scolded Lucy earlier in the evening had rattled the little Latina, leaving her with the strong desire to run back home. Running home, however, wasn't an option, as her parents would be away for another two days._

'_Come on,' her blonde counterpart hissed. _

_Lucy Fabray may look like a little angel, but she was far from it. Beneath the perfectly made out exterior lay a fierce spirit that Santana had found was similar to her own. She saw it now, in the way that the hazel eyes hardened, and felt wary. It was rare for her to be the tempering force of their duo, but tonight it seemed necessary._

'_Your mother told us to stay upstairs,' Santana whispered back. _

_She was loath to admit it, but Lucy's mother scared Santana more than the blonde's imposing father. Their interactions were so unlike those between Santana and her own parents that she felt unsettled. Santana came from a household that was always warm and open; even when she was in trouble. She was never denied physical contact in the way that she felt Lucy was. In comparison to her own, the Fabray household felt so cold. Lucy's father was distant and authoritarian, his attention always elsewhere, and Lucy's mother… She was the most beautiful woman that Santana had ever seen in her life, the first woman that she had ever found her young mind fixated on, blonde haired and blue-eyed; but she was like ice. _

'_Don't be a chicken,' Lucy stated pointedly, padding down the stairs on bare-feet, careful to step near the edge where they didn't creak. 'You aren't the one who will get in trouble anyway…'_

_Well, that was true. Santana felt a flare of respect for her friend, for she knew that if Judy Fabray had raised her eyebrow at her the way that she had at her own daughter earlier, then Santana would never have dared defy her... but maybe after years of practice, Lucy had become immune to it._

_She reluctantly followed. _

_The door to Lucy's father's office was half open as they approached. Lucy tiptoed to the corner of the staircase, settling herself down in the shadows and motioning for the little Latina to follow her._

_Santana looked at her questioningly wondering where exactly this little expedition would take them, but Lucy simply raised a finger to her lips, listening as the soft voices from within the office drifted out. _

'_She hates me.' His deep voice was rough and heavy. _

'_She can't hate you,' they could practically hear Judy Fabray rolling her eyes. 'She's only ten years old, forgodsakes…'_

'_I just…' he started and then paused, 'I just don't know what to say to her sometimes. I don't know how to connect. With Franny it was so easy… but with Luce. She challenges me at every step, she fights me... Just by looking at me, she fights me…'_

'_I'll talk to her.'_

'_Talking won't help,' he replied. _

'_Yes it will,' Judy insisted firmly, 'she's turning into a little madam… I will talk to her. You are her father, Russell… her father; she is not going to get away with being disrespectful to you.'_

_Santana glanced over at her friend nervously, but Lucy's expression gave nothing away. She looked sad, but somehow stoic, hanging on every word that they spoke about her. _

'_Sometimes… when she looks at me,' he sighed, the voice so soft that they had to strain to hear him, 'she is so like Quinn. So like him. I see it in her eyes… and I can't help but remember…' _

_Santana looked again to her friend, confused by the interaction, confused as to why they were even down here listening to it when they should have been in bed. Lucy was listening intently, a frown between her eyebrows._

'_Who's Quinn?' the little Latina whispered to her friend. _

_Lucy's expression was solemn, her eyes fixed on the door._

'_But you are her father,' Judy insisted once more with a strange inflection in her voice. 'You are the one that got up in the middle of the night when she was a baby… you were the one that taught her to read… who taught her to ride her bike, Russ. She may look like Quinn sometimes, but Luce loves you. You are her Daddy.'_

_Santana could almost hear the gears turning within Lucy's head, a deeply thoughtful expression on her face._

'_Who's Quinn?' the Latina repeated a little louder. The blonde glanced at her, frowning as she brought a finger to her lips. _

_The voices within the office had stopped and then suddenly Judy's voice rang out loudly, making them both freeze. _

'_Lucy Fabray.'_

_The little blonde's eyes widened. _

'_If you are out there, you have five seconds to get your backside up the stairs and into bed... You do not want to know what will happen if I find you or Santana anywhere but your bedroom.'_

_The two friends had started to run back up the stairs before the threat was even finished. _

* * *

><p><strong>Somewhere on the road. Present.<strong>

Quinn's heart felt heavy within her.

The empty road stretched out before them, as empty as the road behind. The still and quiet scenery was steadily passing them by, and she couldn't quite work out what had brought them to this point… how the chain of events had unfolded that had ended with her here, beside the brunette, heading steadily towards the unknown.

'Where are we going?'

She repeated the question that had been echoed a hundred times in the last hour. At first the traffic in New York had been heavy and claustrophobic, the buildings crushed together, but as the minutes and hours had passed, so the traffic had seemed to melt away, and with it, the buildings too. They were meandering on and off highways, a maze of roads that made Quinn feel as though they were going in circles. She felt dizzy from their lack of clear direction, from the feeling that she was losing control of the situation.

'Rachel,' she said the woman's name softly.

She had spoken her name so many times in her life. She had shouted it, and whispered it, said it angrily, reverently, pleadingly… And somehow, even now, it found its way to her lips quite naturally.

The brunette did not even glance in her direction, her dark eyes steady on the road before her as she drove. Back at the house, Rachel had been fierce, but now she seemed filled with an eerie calm, blocking all distractions from her mind. She had not said a word directly to Quinn since before the revelations, not even acknowledged her presence since they had been bundled together into Jasper's car.

'Where are we going?'

She knew that it was futile to attempt to get the usually-bubbly brunette to speak when she had made up her mind not to. Rachel was stubborn; much more stubborn than Quinn was herself. However, now that the blonde had regained her equilibrium a little, she felt the need to wrestle back some control over what was happening to her… to all of them because of her.

The world, yet again, had been turned on its head.

The blonde huffed as she looked out of the window of the car. The atmosphere between them was thick; the silence made it thicker still. Outside, the snow had started to float down in the afternoon sun. It melted upon the black river of the road, but clung like a fine ash on the trees and grass.

A small part, at least, of the truth was out and the danger now felt close. New York was certainly not safe, but how much further was the scope of his influence? Joe Waters was awaiting trial for murder… he should surely be more occupied with that than with picking up the hunt again. Yet Roy was convinced that he would. That he would not be deterred if he saw the opportunity to strike. And if not Joe Waters, then how many other Mafia enforcers were out there that may be ready to strike if it was the right climate to? The questions were making her paranoid, but it was a paranoia fuelled by Roy's paranoia, by Mike's.

She was starting to feel frustrated, and Rachel's silence was irritating her all the more.

'Talk to me,' she demanded after a few more moments of silence, hating the pleading note to her voice.

Rachel's features were so close somehow, the smell of her so familiar. It was like the pull of a half-forgotten memory. The brunette seemed to be glaring at the empty road, her grip on the wheel too tight, her shoulders tense.

'Talk to me, dammit!'

Quinn felt her temper start to flare.

Only days ago, Rachel had essentially told her to fuck off out of her life, and now she was acting like the wounded party in this whole mess. Mistakes had been made. Sure. She could have done things differently… but, really, she had done the best that she could. Quinn honestly believed that. She had tried to make the right choices in difficult circumstances. She had tried to protect the people that she loved… and she was getting tired of suffering for it.

'Where are we going?'

Even her anger seemed to be making little impression on the stoic brunette. Quinn had the irrational urge to grab the wheel, just to get a reaction from her. Instead she did something only slightly less stupid.

'Pull over,' she ordered.

Resolutely the singer continued to stonily ignore her, and with one last glance at the woman, Quinn set her jaw.

'_Pull. Over. Now.'_

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.

'Fine.'

Irritably, Quinn pushed open the passenger door.

It had the desired effect.

'Quinn!'

The car broke so quickly that the tires squealed against the asphalt, throwing the blonde forward into her seatbelt and against the dashboard.

'_What the fuck do you think that you are doing?!_'

Rachel rounded on her with a fury so intense that Quinn almost recoiled, but instead of responding, the blonde shot her a glare and unbuckled her seatbelt. Without a word, she threw open the door and got out of the now-stationary car.

'Quinn!' Rachel's voice was tight with her anger, '_Quinn!_ Get back in here!'

The cold air hit her, but in her irritation, Quinn didn't even feel it. She slammed the door behind her, the glass muffling whatever words her ex- had decided to start shouting at her. There was nothing that Rachel hated more than being ignored, but Quinn knew that she needed to put some distance between them before she said something that she would regret.

The fine snowflakes melted against her skin, coating her with a thin balm. She took a deep breath of the cold air, hoping that it would soothe her temper as she stalked off towards the trees. Needless to say, she didn't have a clue where she was.

The blonde didn't get far before Rachel was out of the car after her.

'Fabray!'

Quinn almost laughed at the use of her surname. Rachel always used it when she was getting serious in their arguments; she mistakenly thought that Quinn may respond better to it. She never had. She wasn't some child to be scolded, or even a friend or a lover now.

In this angry moment in the snow, Quinn felt ready to let go of it all. She had reached the end of her patience... for everything. For all the bullshit. Shaking her head she kept her pace as she walked towards the woods, not certain where she would end up and not really caring.

'Get your _ass_ back in that car, _now!_'

As diminutive as Rachel was, when she was angry it was very much as though she could not contain all of the powerful emotion; it always seemed to spill over the top. Her whole body would vibrate with it; Quinn had never been one to underestimate her.

'Don't you dare walk away from me!'

At that, Quinn stopped, cocking her head to the side. Something about the choice of words rankled. Cut her to the quick.

Rachel was pissed, really, really pissed; well good, because so was she. Quinn felt a fury that she hadn't experienced in quite some time, the kind that was molten within her blood... but it wasn't really directed at Rachel, it was directed at herself. She had been playing the victim for far too long... running away; lying; hiding; cowering... It wasn't in her nature… It had never been in her nature.

Fuck this.

In the light falling snow, she turned slowly, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

'Walk away from you?' she echoed icily, '_walk away from you?'_

Rachel blinked at the about turn, folding her arms across her chest. The long waves of chestnut hair fell about her shoulders, her cheeks suddenly flushed from the anger and the cold.

'Get. In. The. Car.'

Each word was deadly, and maybe at one time in her life Quinn would have cared, but now she simply glared at her.

'Not more than 72 hours ago, you told me to get out of your life,' she stated coolly. 'Forgive me for not understanding the one-eighty.'

If Rachel flinched then she hid it well.

'People are trying to kill you,' she replied fiercely.

At which Quinn actually gave a sharp bark of humourless laughter.

'Really? _Really, Rachel?_ Reality really _bites_ doesn't it?' the blonde responded bitterly. 'As if I don't know that.'

'Grow up and take this seriously!'

Quinn felt as though she were truly turning to ice in the snow. For she had done everything… everything to take this seriously; she had given up everything. Sometimes, in the deepest part of the night she had wondered whether it wouldn't have been better if Joe Waters had killed her that night.

'Seriously?' The word was practically a growl, and before she even knew what she was doing she was storming back towards the brunette. '_Everything_ that I have done… _Everything_ has been to protect you. To protect all of you. Can't you see that? _I never wanted you involved in this!_'

Rachel caught her breath as the anger flared in the blonde's eyes. It was almost as though she had forgotten what it was like when Quinn's temper snapped, her skin practically glowing in the afternoon light. Rachel blinked, startled by the sudden nearness of the blonde.

'You lied to me,' she stated, her voice losing the edge that it had had only moments before.

'Yes,' Quinn snapped, 'I _lied_ to you. _Deal with it_.'

The words simply stoked the flames of the fire and Rachel's hands connected with Quinn's chest before she even knew that she was moving. Pushing her backwards, away.

'You destroyed everything. _Everything_ that we had… You destroyed me, Quinn. You broke me. You lied to me. _You lied to me!_'

The blonde caught her hands in her cold grip, the soft skin of her palms pressing into the smaller woman's wrists. Rachel tried to pull away but Quinn just pulled her closer, holding her firmly in place. Rachel was suddenly aware of their height difference, the couple of inches giving Quinn that self-assured presence that she remembered so well. Her golden hair was messy about her face, glistening with melting snowflakes. Her eyes dark.

'I would have followed you,' Rachel said roughly, fighting to push the blonde backwards, feeling the thick lump start to burn in her throat, 'wherever you had gone, I would have followed you... I _loved_ you.'

The snow was melting on her cheeks, but she refused to believe that there were tears there too. The blonde's face was close to her own, the fierceness of her fury melting away like the snow.

'And how long would it have been before you started to resent me? To hate me?' she asked lowly, 'a year? Maybe two?'

Rachel's lips parted, ready to deny it, but no words emerged.

'Your career was just starting,' Quinn continued, 'you were on the edge of achieving everything, Rachel. Everything that you had worked so hard for; I couldn't take that away from you. I couldn't ruin your life as well... I loved you too much to do that.'

Rachel felt a shiver run through her. The intensity of being with Quinn had always overwhelmed her, even in their years together. The blonde had taken root in her thoughts and feelings ever since they had been teenagers, and the undefined feel of her had persisted year after year after year. Complex, difficult, beautiful Quinn Fabray... Even when she was far from her mind, just the way that a stranger would flick her hair back would bring the memories flooding in.

'You never even gave me the choice,' she said softly.

Quinn shook her head, focusing intently on the brunette that she had known so well.

'Because there _wasn't_ a choice,' she replied quietly, but the words didn't seem to even reach Rachel's ears.

'I hated you so much, Quinn,' Rachel wrapped her hands in the front of the blonde's shirt, and though the blonde's grip loosened, she did not release her. 'I wanted to hurt you. I wanted so desperately to hurt you in the way that you hurt me…'

Quinn closed her eyes. Each and every conquest that Rachel had told her of flashing through her mind... Jake. Adam. Tom.

'I know.'

She looked up into the wintery sky, the snowflakes dancing above her, melting on her eyelashes. Around them the woods were quiet, still. The road stretched on, endless and lonely as it cut through the untouched landscape.

'I did it to myself, Rachel…' she whispered. 'I ran away from everyone I cared about… I made you hate me… I don't blame you for that.'

'You were all alone,' Rachel pulled back to look at her, as though the thought had only just become apparent to her, her dark eyes filled with emotions that Quinn would rather not see, 'you were frightened, and…'

Quinn finally released her wrist, only to press a finger against her lips.

'Shhh,' she murmured, cutting her off, 'I did it to myself, Rachel.'

As the heat of their anger cooled, neither of them stepped away. They were close, only inches from each other, and Rachel knew that she had only to tip herself forwards to be in the blonde's arms. The atmosphere between them made it hard for her to breathe. The desire to reach up and wrap her arms around the blonde's neck, to step into her embrace... to kiss her again. To hold her. But that time had passed… neither of them were the people that they had been two years ago, and they couldn't go back to those days, no matter how much they may wish to.

In the wake of her fury, Rachel felt drained, and strangely, settled. Somehow the angry words that had been throwing her off kilter had gone, drifting down to anchor her to the world. She didn't know what the future would hold, for either of them, but, as though the mist was parting before her, she knew with certainty what she needed to do.

'You don't have to do this alone,' Rachel said quietly. 'Not anymore.'

The brunette reached across to hesitantly take the icy hand, holding it carefully in both of hers. The single line of a frown etched between the blonde's eyebrows as she looked down.

'I'm not going to let anyone hurt you,' the singer whispered, 'I can't.'

The hazel eyes were shining as they flicked up to meet hers.

'If someone wants to kill me, Rachel… they _will_... It is just a matter of time.'

It was that solemn truth that had sent her across the world in the first place. The brunette nodded slowly. There was no future that she could see for Quinn, not in the US, and not, now, in Cambodia. Her path would be as endless and lonely as the empty road, cutting through foreign lands, always haunted by what lay behind her.

_I loved you… I love you. I'll always love you._

The snow continued to fall in the pale winter light, and the silence settled between them, words unspoken and unheard.

Rachel felt a small sad smile curve the corners of her lips.

'Get in the car,' she whispered.

Quinn raised her chin a fraction at the order, an answering quirk to her full lips.

'Only if you tell me where we are going.'

Rachel tugged gently at the blonde's hand, unwilling to give too much away.

'Somewhere safe...'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

His belly had been churning since the moment that his aunt had pulled up in the drive earlier in the morning, her blonde hair wild as she had rushed into the house. Carlos had seen her from his bedroom window. Guilt had been gnawing away at him ever since she had found out about the passport, ever since she had given him that look and turned away; the look that told him that she didn't love him anymore. Each time he closed his eyes he could see it again.

He held onto the rails of the bannister on the landing as the adults gathered in the sitting room, the seriousness of the atmosphere heavy in the house. He knew that it must be because of him. They were talking about him. Talking about what he had done and how terrible he was. Even Jasper was here, and an old man that made him nervous. Big tears had welled in his eyes as he heard their voices raise, unable to quite make out the words. Aunt Rachel was shouting, that much was clear. The door opened and the singer stormed out, slamming it loudly behind her. Carlos shrank down at the top of the stairs, not wanting to be seen.

The light from the window cut through the hallway, a beam across Aunt Rachel's face. He could see that she was crying.

Carlos felt his heart twist, too afraid of what was happening to descend the stairs to be with her. Instead, he turned back to his bedroom, tiptoeing in and burying himself under his duvet.

It was a long time later that he heard the commotion again. He ran to the window in time to see Jasper's car pull out of the driveway, puzzled that it was his Aunt Rachel driving it away. Auntie Quinn was in the passenger seat… she didn't even glance up to see him. Carlos felt sick with the churning in his belly as he watched the car drive away.

The house seemed to be alive with activity suddenly, and he was bewildered by it. He hovered hesitantly by his door, not sure whether he should go outside or stay within the safety of the four brightly coloured walls.

The decision was made for him as the door burst open. His Mami's eyes were rimmed with red.

'Baby, we need to pack.'

She brushed passed him to go to wardrobe, opening the doors with sharp movements.

'Mami?'

She was wrestling down the suitcase from the highest shelf.

'You need to help me pack, baby,' she repeated herself distractedly.

'What's happening?' he asked uncertainly, feeling frozen in position as she unzipped the bag. The churning in his belly only intensified. The tears were welling up again in his eyes as he realised what was going on. The fact that he had truly gone too far this time. 'Don't send me away…'

She didn't seem to hear him, taking the clothes from the closet and throwing them onto his bed. Shirts, pants, sweaters.

'Please don't send me away,' he pleaded, throwing himself at her and grabbing onto her waist as he started to cry, 'please don't send me away. I'll be good. I promise that I'll be good. I won't fight anymore. I promise… please don't send me away.'

Santana froze as he started to become hysterical, cursing herself for her insensitivity.

'Sweetheart…' she gathered him into her arms, but the boy wouldn't stop. 'Sweetheart…'

She felt the anxiety and fear that had been trapped within her intensify even further, reflecting her son's. Before she knew it she was holding him onto him as much as he was clinging to her. Santana pulled him towards the bed, sitting down blindly on the soft surface and wrapping her arms around her son.

'I love you, baby,' she whispered, over and over into his ear and he cried into her shoulder, his tears warm on her neck. 'I love you baby. I would never send you away…'

The fear for him, and for B, was solid and heavy within her. When she closed her eyes she could see Joe Water's face, the cold and predatory look upon his features. Quinn's words had conjured such images within her mind. They had entranced her; weaved the story so well. How easily she had let her best friend slip away… how easily she had watched her drive away again today. Santana wasn't sure when she started crying, but her eyes were stinging with the tears. After all the years, years that had brought her closer to Quinn than a sister, she hadn't been able to support her in her time of greatest need. She had been denied that. She had let her leave.

'You're the most important person in the world to me, Carlos,' she whispered in his ear as he continued to shake in her arms. 'The most important person in the world…'

* * *

><p><strong>Somewhere north. Present.<strong>

When the house emerged from the white landscape, Quinn couldn't quite believe her eyes. The light was fading as the day drew to a close, the warm glow of the sunset glistening off the snowy landscape and casting long purple shadows across the ground.

'We're here,' Rachel stated needlessly, carefully driving the SUV up towards the house.

Quinn looked over at the brunette, her eyes lingering a moment too long on the warm features.

'Rach… if this is one of your houses, then it is pretty traceable…' she started hesitantly.

'It is not traceable to me,' the brunette sent her a small smile.

The blonde raised an eyebrow.

'You have a key,' she pointed out.

'It is not _my_ house.'

'Then…'

'It belongs to my grandparents',' she elaborated. The blonde sighed, looking up at the cabin, nestled into the side of the snowy hill.

'Rach, that's still a traceable connection…' Quinn started.

'My _Corcoran_ grandparents, sweetie,' Rachel cut her off, and whether it was the words or the term of endearment that stopped the blonde, Rachel wasn't sure. For once, Quinn appeared to be tongue-tied. Rachel smiled.

'I guess we all have our secrets, hmm?' she commented as she turned off the engine.

Quinn shook her head at herself.

'I guess I deserved that,' she acknowledged. 'I thought you and Shelby…'

Rachel sighed, turning to face the blonde with the resigned expression of a parent trying to explain something complex to a child.

'I have no relationship with Shelby,' she stated, 'and that doesn't bother me anymore… but my grandparents wanted to get to know me, and I wanted to know them. They are a very lovely couple...'

Quinn looked back out front, to the cabin. Though it was glowing with the sunset, the windows themselves looked dark. The woods behind climbed up the side of the steep hill, dark and dense. The silence seemed heavy here, as though sound were swallowed by the trees, dampened by the snow. It was beautiful, and still, and somehow it felt as though it were the end of the world.

'No one's home,' she surmised.

'And they won't be,' Rachel confirmed, 'they're in Australia, following the warmer weather…'

She could feel the hesitance just in the way that Quinn was sitting so perfectly still. She could feel her anxiety.

_You're safe here. _

Rachel swallowed the words that were on the tip of her tongue. For the millionth time in the day she felt the surge of protective ire course through her. No one threatened what was hers; no one threatened her family.

Uncharacteristically, Quinn paused. She seemed almost unwilling to move, as though opening the door to the car was crossing a threshold that she wasn't yet prepared to cross. Rachel watched her from the corner of her eye, contemplating those smooth features she had known so well.

'Come on,' she said lightly, 'we should go in before it gets dark…'

Quinn glanced across at her uncertainly, but Rachel was already moving out of the car, her back turned towards her. She bit her lower lip.

Things weren't turning out quite how she had imagined that they would. She hesitated but a moment longer before gathering her things to follow the brunette out into the snow.

* * *

><p><strong>2021. New York.<strong>

_The atmosphere was raucous around the wooden table, drowning out the background music. Jasper swung back on his chair cradling his second glass of calvados... he had intended to stop drinking after the first digestif, but then Rachel had ordered him a second one. The wine had flowed freely through the meal, and he was more than a little drunk, in that happy, buzzy state of being that came from being with friends. Even though, technically, most of these people weren't really his friends._

_At the head of the table, the blonde seemed to almost be glowing as she described some story, holding the listeners around her in rapt attention. Rachel, positioned in the seat of honor at the opposite end, had been similarly holding court, her movements just a little too flamboyant, just a little too clumsy. But somewhere, mid-sentence, Rachel's eyes settled on her girlfriend, and she paused, that warm look coming across her face. It was a moment too long, almost, as though she were trying to keep the image in her mind. _

_Jasper felt something within him twist; a feeling that he was unsure of. _

_Quinn had really come through tonight. The surprise dinner party had been meticulously organised, down to the last detail, which made Jasper think that it was a slightly devious move on the blonde's part to position him at Rachel's end of the table rather than at her own. He knew that she was determined to get them to like each other, not yet realising that it was an impossible task. It was not really a matter of liking each other… rather, it was a matter of circumstance. Like two planets orbiting the same sun, they were stuck on their trajectory, fixed and far away from each other. _

'_Here, Rachel,' he murmured, unable to watch her gaze at Quinn anymore. _

_Jasper reached for the present that he had brought, wrapped carefully in black tissue paper and tied with a simple ribbon. No one could fault his sense of style. _

_He leant forwards across the table towards her, his lips brushing her smooth cheek. _

'_Happy birthday.' _

_The aspiring actress smiled at him, and for a moment he was stunned by her. Beauty was what he traded in, the human form sculpted so perfectly. He photographed models every day, caught the light and shadows across their honed bodies, but that spark, the sparkle amongst the imperfections of Rachel's face struck him hard in this moment. No one could deny that Rachel Berry was a very beautiful woman. _

'_Thanks, Jasper,' she smiled at him warmly, the wine melting the usual hostilities between them. 'What is it?'_

_He felt a sudden apprehension of her opening it, the sobering thought of what lay beneath cutting through his alcohol buzz, but she was already tearing through the paper with nimble fingers. As she pulled the tissue from the surface of the glass, she paused, her movement stilling._

'_Jasper, it's…' _

_Whatever she was going to say was lost as he cut her off. _

'_It's my favourite picture of her,' he interrupted, slightly awkwardly, 'I thought that you should have it…'_

_Rachel's lips parted, her thumb running across the base of the framed photograph. _

'_How did you…' she frowned at the image. She recalled flicking through many of his photographs of Quinn when the blonde still shared an apartment with him up in Boston, but she knew with certainty that this was one that she had never seen before. In the foreground, a younger Quinn looked at the camera, serious and unsmiling in the way that she often had posed for him. She had that same slightly dark and haunted quality that blonde exhibited when she became too introspective, and yet behind her, by the window, less definite than the first, was Quinn again, wearing the same clothes, but caught in a moment as she laughed, her eyes focussed somewhere beyond the camera. Her face was alight. Like twins, they looked out from the photograph, the smiling Quinn's hand reaching out towards the serious Quinn's shoulder, the fingertips almost touching the skin. _

'_I was experimenting with multiple exposures,' Jasper replied stiltedly, his eyes on the image. It may not be the most skilled photograph he had ever taken, but he knew that it was one of the most beautiful, capturing not only a moment in time, but the dichotomy of a person so complex that it bewildered him. _

_Rachel's eyes fixed on the photograph, a fine line forming between her brows. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the evening, but she felt a sudden sweep of melancholy wash over her, a moment of strange premonition that tingled at her fingertips. The two Quinn's looked out of the picture at her, aware of something that she was not, holding something back._

_She glanced up, across the table, to her girlfriend who was alight with the conversation, indulging in that subconscious habit of running her fingers across the scar on the back of her hand. Rachel watched her for a moment, lost in her thoughts, before Quinn glanced across catching her gaze. As though they were sharing a secret from opposite ends of the table, Quinn grinned impishly at her, before blowing her a kiss._

_From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Jasper look away. _

_The singer glanced down again at the somehow-haunting photograph and shivered. _

'_Thank you,' she repeated herself. 'It's beautiful…'_

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Please review.<p> 


	24. A dangerous game

Thank you to everyone who has read this and to everyone who is reviewing. It is very much appreciated.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 24 - A dangerous game<span>

**Present. Driving south. **

'Simon…'

Brittany winced at the sound of the man on the other end of the payphone. His anger and frustration was clear, and she understood it, she really did, but right now she didn't really care. Too much was up in the air, too many conflicting thoughts and feelings.

'It's a family emergency,' she stated again, cutting him off. 'I know that it is terrible timing, but… it is an emergency. I'm sorry. I really am. But I can't do this. I can't stay.'

She hung up the phone before he could talk any more, the money clinking down. She had turned her cell-phone off as they had left New York and now, hundreds of kilometres from home, she was starting to wonder what the hell they were doing. Despite the relative warmth of the setting sun, she felt a shiver run down her spine.

Behind her she could hear Carlos' laughter as he scrabbled around in the dust, kicking the empty beer can that he and Jasper were using as a soccer ball. The photographer glanced back at her, his eyes holding a concern that he seemed unwilling to speak. Taking advantage of his opponent's distraction, Carlos dodged around him and kicked the can beneath the roadsign that they had been using as a goal.

'Score!' He shouted excitedly.

Jasper turned back to the boy, who was already charging around the empty car park, and ran after him playfully and picking him up about the waist and hauling him over his broad shoulders.

'Come on, kid,' he laughed, 'time to get back on the road.'

Brittany's heart twisted a little as she thought of Santana, the sickening worry settling in her stomach as she climbed back into the car again.

They drove in relative silence together as the sun set; Jasper at the wheel of the rental, Carlos asleep in the back beneath a blanket. Brittany looked out of the window, watching the barren landscape as it went by. At Philadelphia they had dropped off Quinn's rented car and had hired another under Jasper's name, hoping to break up any trail from New York.

'You don't have to do this,' Brittany murmured, glancing across at the man. Unlike Rachel and Santana who had despised him for years, Brittany had always liked the misguided photographer but they had always been on separate sides of Quinn's life, never really crossing in the middle.

He shot her a look, glancing at the sleeping boy in the backseat of the car.

'I know.'

He focussed his eyes back on the road in front of them, keeping his silence. Of them all, Jasper's connection to Quinn was the least obvious. Unlike Brittany, whose name appeared alongside hers on the billboards for _the Young Idealist_, or Rachel, whose own history with the blonde would be splashed across the tabloids as the publicity machine started to turn in the run up to the film's release, Jasper's public connection to the blonde was limited to the photographs in his early portfolios from Boston, dusty and forgotten now.

'I've really fucked up,' Brittany whispered, 'I've really, _really_ fucked up…'

'You didn't know,' Jasper replied softly.

'I knew that she wouldn't want me to do it,' the woman replied, 'I knew what I was doing… that I was using her, but I couldn't help myself…'

'Creativity is selfish,' Jasper shrugged his broad shoulders, 'I know that, and so do you. You create something beautiful… and it is part of you, your mark. We all need to leave a mark; to try to change the world.'

Brittany took an uneasy breath, her heart tight in her chest. Beyond the danger that she had inadvertently placed them all in, she felt the ache for her friend, for the unyielding look that Quinn had given her. She had always believed that Quinn Fabray would be loyal until her last breath, she had known that, but the hazel eyes had held a truth that Brittany was not ready to see… that her betrayal could shatter even the strongest of friendships.

'The film premieres in six weeks,' she stated softly.

Jasper nodded once more.

'So we hide out until then…' he agreed, a frown between his eyebrows.

'And what happens after?' Brittany pressed. 'The danger doesn't go away… If he knows… if this man, this _Waters_… if he knows that we are connected to her then the danger will always be there. For me… for Carlos, for you, Santana, Rachel… It doesn't go away.'

He glanced at her seriously. The argument that he had witnessed before leaving the house, the fierce argument in hushed tones between Santana and Brittany had cut him to the core and he dreaded what Quinn's reaction would be when they turned up to Rachel's secret location in a few days time without the Latina.

Quinn's plan had been simple; to get out. She had been clear about that, about the danger that they were all in if they stayed. In her opinion, until the situation became clearer, they needed to scatter and run. Rachel had given them the zip code for their destination and they had left in opposite directions. Santana Lopez, however, seemed to have other ideas. She had been wise enough to only bring them up once the doctor and singer had left. The Latina did not run and hide. Period.

'We will figure it out,' he stated, though he did not seem too convinced of his own words. In twenty-four hours the world had been turned upside down, and all that he could think of was that he needed to protect them, this strange, dysfunctional family that he called his own. And he would, to his last breath.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

The heavy silence of the night felt as though it were pressing down on her from all sides. Santana rubbed at her eyes with one hand, trying to stifle a yawn. Her eyelids were heavy, but her mind was racing, the adrenaline making her twitchy. Brittany and Carlos had left over five hours ago, and Santana had struggled to keep herself from running after them.

Spread across her desk were the files, the medical reports of Water's victims; each and every one of them had a face peering back at her, their skin waxy and pale and their eyes covered by little black rectangles in an attempt to maintain dignity, as though any dignity could be maintained after what he had done to them. Her laptop was open at the corner casting a surreal glow across the room. It was more than a case to her now. It was a battle. A battle for survival, and her mind was racing with the possibilities.

The house was too quiet… too empty. Though she had spent many evenings working in her office over the years, knowing that her baby boy was tucked up in bed on the floor above, or knowing that B was lying on the couch in the sitting room finishing a book or researching some project, was enough to suffuse this house with warmth… It was her family. It was her home. Without them, the space within these walls was cold and empty. So quiet.

'Coffee?'

He barely made a sound as he slipped into the room, and Santana had to literally bite her tongue in order to keep herself from swearing at him. He didn't miss her reaction and raised an eyebrow as he set the steaming mug down onto the desk before her.

The lawyer eyed him warily. There was something terribly unsettling about this man… and yet, apparently he had been watching them for years, a secret guardian angel, watching them all.

Whatever had passed between him and Quinn had assured her that he would not leave the house now, his eyes, more than ever, would be on her back.

'Your name is not really _Roy_ is it?' she surmised.

There was a flicker of a smile on his lips.

'No,' he agreed, unwilling to elaborate further.

She reached for the mug and settled back in the chair, exhaustion settling within her like a heavy weight. She didn't taste it just yet, simply inhaled the strong aromas like an addict. He looked down upon the desk, his grey eyes slowly tracing a path between each set of notes, over each of the pictures. He reached for one, his fingers hovering against the edge of the photograph, and Santana didn't need to look down to know which it must be.

'Those are confidential,' she stated. He didn't seem to hear her, or he didn't care, as he reached for the picture. He held it with a gentleness that seemed out of keeping with his character.

Johnny Quinn; victim number 10, did not look like his sister, not enough for Santana to have noticed it when she had first looked at the photographs. But when Santana had first come back into this room, over four hours ago, she had stood and stared at the image of the dead man. There was something there. Something uncannily familiar. Like Quinn. Like Lucy. It had been enough to make her tremble from a fear she was afraid to admit even to herself. She was afraid to accept that all this was real, that Quinn really was connected to these people; that they really were trying to kill her.

'Do you really think that he will bother coming after her?'

Roy glanced up from the photograph to fix her with his grey gaze. He didn't answer her straight away, just held the look steadily before setting the photograph down on the desk.

'I _know_ Joe Waters,' he replied finally, as though that answered her question. Santana folded her arms across her chest, the defensive pose showing both her strength and her weakness. He looked at her appraisingly before continuing.

'When Mickey was given the black-mark, I made it my job to try to protect his son,' his eyes dipped down briefly once more to the photograph before setting it back on the desk, 'and after that night… his daughter. When she agreed to leave, Quinn charged me with protecting you… with protecting your son, and Brittany, and Rachel. And I _have_.'

Santana's eyes narrowed at the way that he had said it, at the slight inflection of his tone.

'What do you mean, that you "have"?' she probed.

The faint hint of a smile pulled at his thin lips. He paused for a heartbeat.

'I have done what I needed to,' he replied evasively, 'to keep you safe.'

She continued to stare at him, hard, the mug of coffee forgotten in her hands.

'I didn't want to discuss it earlier,' he said firmly, 'it was not the time... But I can assure you, there is very real danger from that man, even now. You are making a mistake by staying here, Santana.'

Santana folded her arms across her chest, a sickening feeling settling within her.

'Then tell me now,' she instructed.

'Ms Lopez…'

'Tell me,' she insisted, glaring at him, '_now_.'

She had never dealt well with uncertainty, and already this situation had left her horribly off-balance. Quinn and Rachel had fled to an unknown location; her son and wife following only hours later. Though Santana had insisted on staying behind, she couldn't help but feel lost in the sudden loneliness of it. But she was strong, she had _always_ been strong, and now, more than ever, she knew that she needed her strength. In Santana's mind there was no such thing as an unsolvable problem; just difficult solutions, and she was determined to find one. She needed to find one.

Roy gave her an appraising look before pulling out the chair on the other side of the desk.

'Joe Waters,' he started, with a shake of his head, 'Joe is like me, Ms Lopez. This isn't a job to him, it is a life. Until you come to understand that, you will not understand anything about what is happening to you and your family. And you _have_ to understand it to protect them.'

Santana licked her dry lips, her dark brows drawing together.

'What do you know about him?' she asked.

He raised an eyebrow.

'Everything there is to know,' he replied flatly. 'He is a serial killer, first and foremost. He may have been picked up by the Lucchese and turned into their little pet hitman, but in his nature he is a killer, pure and simple. He plans his crimes methodically and takes satisfaction from the hunt… the only reason that Quinn survived was because it was a surprise for him to find her at the hospital that night. He is an intelligent and perceptive man... impatient at times, but... What you have here…'

He gestured across the files, at the twelve faces of the people that Joe Waters was charged with murdering.

'This does not even touch the surface of the people that he has killed.'

A chill ran up Santana's spine once more. Roy seemed ready to say more and then decided against it, falling silent once again.

'So…' she surmised, 'he did kill them all.'

Roy steepled his fingers, meeting the Latina's gaze.

'All but one,' he replied quietly.

Santana raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully. He reached across the desk, fishing one of the photographs off from the pile to her right. Santana frowned at the image as he held it up.

'_Dan Holbrook?_' Santana questioned, the doubt evident in her voice. The hitman's ex-business partner was believed to be his final murder; Joe Waters had been arrested only a couple of days after Holbrook's body had been found with a bullet through the back of his head, just over a year ago. Of all of the murders _this_ was likely to be the one with the most evidence to convict him. 'How can you be sure?'

Roy placed the photograph face-down on the table, pausing for a heartbeat before answering her. His grey eyes met hers.

'Because _I_ killed him.'

Santana felt her heart start to race, the sickening feeling only intensifying. She stared at him, unable to even blink.

'_What?_'

'_I_ killed him,' the man before her repeated softly.

As Santana continued to stare at him he took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair and gathering his thoughts to attempt to explain to the young lawyer. He was not a man of many words, but with the situation that they found themselves in, he had made the active decision to disclose the truth to her. Quinn trusted this woman, and with that trust, so would he.

'Waters and Holbrook were rivals who both worked as hitmen for the Lucchese,' he said steadily, 'they were in competition with each other, but in order to kill Johnny, they put aside their differences and worked together… They were both given the task of eliminating Mickey Quinn's family.'

Roy stood up abruptly from the chair, moving swiftly over to the bookcase on the wall. He pondered the titles quietly for a moment, careful not to reach out to touch them.

'A year ago, Dan Holbrook made his way into Rachel's dressing room at the theatre,' Roy stated quietly, the voice filled with a cold detachment that Santana felt was like ice water over her skin. 'A gossip magazine had printed a spread of pictures of Rachel with Quinn beside her – evidently Holbrook made the connection, and after the show he waited for her. All he needed from her was a name…'

Santana's eyes widened.

'He waited for her…' she echoed.

'He locked the dressing room door,' Roy continued quietly, 'cornered her…'

'The stalker,' Santana stated, the pieces finally fitting together in her mind as she tried to remember back to that horrible time. The incident had shaken Rachel; it had shaken all of them, but now that she knew the truth of what had happened she felt her blood turn icy. Although it had been Brittany who had taken the call from the police station, it had been Santana who had picked the singer up. Rachel had been pale as a ghost and silent as she had driven her home, but that night, she had not stopped crying. For the first time in a year, she had begged for Quinn as Brittany had held her close on the couch, and Santana had felt her heart almost break whilst listening to the sobs.

'I broke down the door with a fire extinguisher before anything… _happened_ to her,' Roy stated carefully.

Santana shuddered at the possibilities, of how close they had come to disaster without even realising it, of how close Rachel had come to harm. Her mind was reeling.

'I thought that the stalker escaped,' she said quietly, her throat burning.

'He didn't,' was all that Roy said in reply. There was more that could be said, but Santana did not want to ask and he did not volunteer the facts. They looked at each other for a long moment.

'Does Quinn know that you killed him?' she asked finally, that same unsettling feeling of everything tumbling down once again.

'Yes,' he replied softly. 'She asked me to protect you. _All_ of you.'

Santana clasped her hands together, her knuckles turning white. Placed in that situation, would she kill to protect her family? Could she? She looked to the window, to the dark expanse beyond it. Would she let someone kill to protect the people she loved? Would she ask them to?

Somehow, today, she felt as though Quinn were both farther from her and closer to her than she had ever been. Cold reality was sinking in, and it was a strange, unexpected thought that sprung, unbidden, upon her: she wondered, ominously, whether she would ever see the blonde doctor again.

'He is dangerous, Santana,' Roy persisted, 'that is what I am trying to tell you. He won't stop until he achieves what he has set out to do…'

She dug her nails into her palms, leaving half-moon indentations in the soft skin, her mind racing. Santana Lopez was not someone who was easily deterred. She was not someone who gave up and now, more than anything, she knew that she, like Quinn, had to figure out how to protect her family. Somewhere, from the darkest corners of her mind, the question sprung unbidden: if Roy had killed Holbrook so indifferently, what was stopping him from killing Waters as well?

* * *

><p><strong>Present. Somewhere North, in a cabin. <strong>

As she arranged the logs in the open fireplace, Rachel watched the blonde out of the corner of her eye. There was something painfully domestic about watching Quinn in the kitchen, her lithe body wrapped in one of Santana's old college sweatshirts and her blonde hair swept back from her face. The tension had melted from her shoulders and each movement was assured and content, as though the very action of cooking had soothed her. She seemed to roll the blade of the large knife across the board, chopping the herbs in the fast rocking motion that she had learnt from her mother. Rachel had seen her do it a million times before and it struck her poignantly that Quinn had done the same thing at seventeen as she did at twenty-three, and even now, years later, the confident movements had not changed. Deny it as she might, there was still something very beautiful about Quinn Fabray.

Rachel sighed.

The blonde glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. Rachel felt a blush rise on her cheeks at being caught watching her, but if Quinn noticed, she thankfully didn't say so.

'I didn't know that you knew how to build a fire,' the blonde commented neutrally, tipping the herbs into the saucepan on the stove.

'Of course I do,' Rachel scoffed, rolling her eyes. 'I achieved the girl scout gold award.'

Quinn snorted.

'_Of course _you did.'

Rachel could hear the smirk in the blonde's tone, even though she had turned back towards the stove. The singer sat up a little straighter on the floor.

'Don't mock my superior survival skills just because _you_ don't have any,' she quipped.

This time, Quinn turned around more deliberately, her eyebrow rising again as she looked at the singer who, though she sat cross-legged on the floor, had an air of arrogance about her.

'_Superior_ survival skills?' she echoed, 'you think that _you_ have superior survival skills to _me?_'

Rachel met her gaze challengingly, a playful glint in her dark eyes.

'Definitely,' she replied.

For the first time in a long time, Quinn found herself smirking at the brunette, the light-hearted quarrel reminding her of easier times. She folded her arms across her chest and raised her chin a fraction.

'And how, exactly, do you figure that one, Ms Berry?' she asked.

Rachel looked particularly pleased with herself as she reeled off the list that she had constructed.

'Firstly, I found us shelter…'

'You took us to a cabin that you _already_ had keys to,' Quinn interrupted dryly.

'_And_ I got us here before dark…' Rachel continued.

'Which _I_ should get points for surviving,' Quinn rolled her eyes, 'considering your driving.'

Rachel's eyebrow rose at the interruption. She ticked off her third finger pointedly.

'I _foraged_ for food…'

'In the _store_,' Quinn snorted, 'and _I_ picked it out.'

'Stop interrupting my list,' Rachel retorted, sending her a mock glare to which Quinn raised an eyebrow of her own.

'Be careful with your tone, Berry,' she warned meaningfully, 'or have you forgotten _who_ is cooking your _foraged_ food for you?'

The brunette grinned.

'Yet _another_ example of my outstanding survival skills,' she stated snugly, flipping her long hair back over her shoulder, 'I found a _domestic goddess_ to cook for me…'

Quinn shook her head, turning back to the saucepan on the stove. Somehow, the light words constricted in her chest. The domestic goddess quip had been one of Santana's jibes back when they had been teenagers, so long ago… the Latina has always been convinced that the Fabray's were grooming their daughter to become the perfect diplomat's wife. How wrong she had been. It was nothing; such a small comment and yet somehow it was one of those threads that linked Quinn back through to the past. If she spent long enough with Rachel, she feared that the persistent brunette would pull at each loose thread until the years unravelled around her.

'I don't find you charming,' she stated nonchalantly, picking up the wooden spoon to stir the soup.

Rachel snorted indelicately.

'Yes, you do,' she murmured, mostly to herself, and if Quinn heard her, she kept her silence.

With Rachel's open fire warming the sitting room and kitchen, the cabin was cosy. It was a small building, nestled into the side of the hill, with a few bedrooms scattered around the central living area. The wooden floors were covered with rugs and though the furnishings were not particularly vegan-friendly, Rachel had to admit that it was beautifully decorated.

The brunette felt no need to fill the silence as the doctor cooked, trying instead to start to get her head around the events of the day. Everything that she had believed had fallen apart, but instead of the devastation that she should have felt, that she _deserved_ to feel, Rachel felt a calm determination settle within her. The rollercoaster of high octane emotions had drained her of energy. She felt as though she had been pushed and pulled in every direction, torn apart and melted together… she didn't know which way was up and which was down anymore, but somehow, now, in the quiet of the evening, she didn't really care. She didn't have the energy to care. She just needed for the dust to settle again, for her equilibrium to be restored.

'Rach…'

Quinn spoke her name softly, and Rachel glanced up from the fire into which she had been staring intensely. The blonde held out the bread board to her and Rachel took it reflexively, before placing it on the small coffee table in front of the couch. She recognised the fresh loaf instantly, not so much from the look of its golden crust, but from the warm, nutty smell. It was a bread that she loved; a vegan recipe that Quinn had once cooked for her often. The aroma stirred memories that were best left alone.

'It smells delicious,' the brunette commented as Quinn returned with the soup that she had made, setting a steaming bowl on the table before her. She kept a reasonable distance, careful not to be too close nor too far, as she settled onto the couch, holding her own bowl close.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, until what had been comfortable became acutely awkward. The blonde sighed heavily, leaning back against the cushions, and holding the bowl of soup untouched on her lap.

'This is not a solution,' she stated.

The hazel eyes were on her, but Rachel did not want to look up to meet them. She tore at the piece of bread on her plate.

'It's _not_ a solution, Rachel,' the blonde repeated softly.

With a flash of irritation, the singer looked up.

'And running away to Cambodia was?' she retorted sharply.

The blonde's jaw tightened a fraction, a flare of something else in her eyes, something that Rachel thought looked horribly like hurt a second before the familiar Fabray mask settled into position. Before she could speak again, Rachel shook her head, calming her own spark of temper.

'Not tonight,' she said quietly. 'No more tonight. I don't want to talk about it. Not this…'

Quinn nodded a fraction, her eyes focussing back on the fire, her hands on the cooling bowl. Gone was the camaraderie of the earlier evening, the warmth of being with Rachel. Now she felt as though they were strangers again, sitting together but so far away that they may as well be on different worlds. She had never felt so disconnected from Rachel Berry… and yet this Rachel was not the Rachel that she had known as a teenager, or even the woman she had loved before she had left New York. Rachel had grown and changed over the years, just as she had, and each time she realised that fact it hurt a little. Their paths had taken them in such different directions that it should be of no surprise to her that they no longer had the innate understanding they had once enjoyed. It made Quinn wonder why she had been holding on so strongly to the past, even whilst knowing that the movement of time had changed everything.

'What happened to you?'

Rachel's question was soft; hesitant.

Quinn had been watching the flames flicker so intently that she hadn't realised that the brunette was still watching her. She glanced back at her warily.

'I thought that you didn't want to talk about it,' she replied neutrally.

'Not about that,' Rachel agreed, 'I'm not talking about that…' She sighed. 'I'm talking about _you_.'

Her eyes dropped to her plate again, reaching out to tear off another small chunk of bread before dipping it into the soup.

'I never…' she shrugged her shoulders, 'I never asked because I was angry. I was so angry… and hurt. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to think about you… but I did. I thought about you every day, Quinn. I wondered where you were… what you were doing…'

She avoided the hazel eyes, looking instead at the soup as she stirred it with a spoon.

'Then… eventually, Santana told me that you were in Cambodia. That you were working out there…'

Rachel paused, glancing at the soup once more before looking up to meet the hazel eyes again.

'I…' she started quietly, 'I'm starting to understand why you did it… I _am_. Lying… and leaving…'

The singer shrugged her narrow shoulders once more.

'I guess what I'm asking is… what _happened_, Quinn?' her eyes were wide with an emotion that the blonde could not place, a mixture of regret and something else… something subtler. 'After the fire, when your family died, you completely shut down… you cut yourself off from the world, from your friends… from _me_. For a while, I thought that we had lost you… but then you came back.'

Quinn raised an eyebrow.

'Eventually,' she agreed. She had found it hard to imagine a way out of the darkness in those years following the fire; she had found it hard to imagine a time when she could possibly be whole again.

'It makes more sense now,' Rachel murmured to herself, thinking over what Quinn had said earlier in the day about her family's deaths, about her biological father... 'some of it, at least, makes more sense.'

Quinn's lips curved slightly in a gentle smile.

'You had a question, Rach,' she prompted softly.

Rachel nodded. The details that she had missed suddenly seemed so important to her, almost more important than the present. It was as though she could not continue forwards without understanding the past a little better, without knowing the truth and understanding everything that lay between them in the careful distance that they could not cross.

'Your brother died in front of you,' she stated quietly, 'you watched him, Quinn… You hurt everyone you loved, your _family_, in order to protect them… and you ran away…'

She took a deep breath, watching the motionless blonde who was listening carefully to her every word.

'How did you survive that?' she asked finally, her eyebrows knitting together. 'How did you come out of that so… intact?'

Quinn shook her head, hazel eyes glancing back at the singer. How could Rachel not see how wrong she was with that statement? How far she was from the truth? For all that Quinn could see of herself was fractured and broken, even now. Though the months and years had helped her heal, she felt disfigured by all that had happened, but the path that her life had taken.

* * *

><p><strong>Phnom Penh, Cambodia. 2022. <strong>

'_The way you just spoke to them was entirely inappropriate!' _

_The Frenchman's accent was grating on her nerves as he followed her down the concrete steps of the ministry building. Quinn rolled her eyes irritably to herself, not slowing her pace. The afternoon meetings had not gone well and she had no patience to deal with Francois._

'_The way that they are running this office is entirely inappropriate,' she retorted. _

'_You are a typical stupid American!' he hissed as they reached the bottom of the steps, his grey eyes flashing as she turned to glare at him, her hands automatically finding her hips. _

'_Stupid?' she echoed dangerously, looking him up and down dismissively._

'_This is not your country, Quinn,' the older man spat, 'these are not your people… you don't belong here…' _

'_What? And you do?' she cut him off. _

'_At least I have respect for their culture,' he snapped._

_Quinn ground her teeth, her eyes hard. She had met the grey-eyed head of the Cambodian UNICEF a few weeks before, and had immediately known that working with him would be almost impossible for her. She had been living in Cambodia for almost three months now, but despite the warmth of the country and its people, despite the brightness of the midday sun, Quinn felt as though her soul remained frozen, and in darkness. _

'_You,' she replied darkly, 'are a typical arrogant Frenchman.'_

_Flipping her blonde hair from her eyes she stalked to the door, throwing it open to step out into the city. _

_It was already dark outside, the moon cutting a thin crescent in the sky, though it was barely beyond the afternoon. The balmy warmth of the Phnom Penh was heavy with spices mixed against the unfamiliar smells of the Khmer city. The noise and chaos of the roads assaulted her and Quinn breathed it in, letting the foreign country pummel her senses. She often wished that the present would overwhelm her so fully that it would blot out her thoughts of the past… but no matter where she was, no matter what she was doing, the memories were persistent. _

'_You have no idea what you are doing here…'_

_Francois was hot on her heels as she left the building, unwilling to give up the argument, and strangely enough, with that comment, he was right. Quinn had no idea why she was here… no idea what convoluted forces that had brought her to this place, to these people and the hospital that Nous was building. Each day she seemed to be on the warpath for something, the building, the electricity, the water supply, the medical supplies... She channeled her energy fiercely into everything that she did, trying to find a direction, a purpose. _

_It was from the corner of her eye that she noticed the child approach them, her curiosity piqued by the uncertainty of the young girl's movements. _

'_Americana?' _

_Quinn's brows furrowed at the name, strangely certain that it was not a Khmer word. _

'_Run along, kid,' the Frenchman instructed the child as she approached, 'we're not buying anything...'_

_The Khmer girl stopped hesitantly, afraid of the man's authoritarian tone. Her dark eyes flicked from him to the blonde woman and back again. She looked ready to turn around when Quinn stepped towards her. _

'_Wait,' she instructed, reaching out towards the girl, 'what did you say?'_

_The girl blinked. _

'_You're the Americana,' she said timidly, 'from the hospital…'_

_That even drew Francois' interest to the girl, almost instantly forgetting their argument and exchanging a confused look with the young doctor. _

'_That's right…' Quinn confirmed gently, afraid that any sharp movements would frighten the girl away. _

'_You must come,' the girl's voice grew stronger, her small dirty hand reaching for Quinn's own with a certainty she had not had before. 'You must come…'_

_The unexpected warmth of the small hand about hers surprised Quinn and she straightened. _

'_It's a scam,' Francois stated flatly. _

'_You must come,' the girl urged again, gently tugging on Quinn's hand. 'Please… you must come.'_

_The doctor blinked indecisively for a second. _

'_Why?' she asked. _

'_You must come… You must…'_

_The girl tugged on her hand, and with a strange acceptance, Quinn let herself be tugged forwards. _

'_Ah, putain,' Francois rolled his eyes. 'It's a scam, Quinn.'_

_She glanced over her shoulder at him, at the derisiveness on his handsome features. _

'_Maybe it is,' she replied with a shrug of her shoulders, 'but what if it isn't?'_

_He rolled his eyes at her ignorance as she bent down to the level of the young girl, squeezing the small hand gently. _

'_It's your funeral, Fabray,' he muttered. _

_The words struck a chord for her, cracking against the toughness that had solidified within her after she had run away from New York. For months now the dark thoughts had circled her like vultures… the loneliness had seeped into her skin, soaked her, and often her thoughts drifted back through events and decisions and consequences… For months now she had wondered whether it would have been better if she had died that night, if that bullet that had embedded itself so deeply in the firedoor when she had slipped and fallen had actually found its mark. _

'_Take me wherever you want me to go,' she instructed the girl gently. _

_The evening was dense with darkness as they meandered between buildings and roads, the certainty of the child's quick footsteps so much more confident than her own. Quinn let herself be led, her eyes adjusting to the darkness enough to make out the shapes of objects and people as they passed. Beneath her feet the track seemed to crunch with the remnants of the market food, and the insects that had come to clear up the leftovers. The warmth of the girl's hand, steadily tugging her forward into the unknown, was as persistent as fate had been in Quinn's life. The roads narrowed into alleyways between the buildings, but the girl's pace did not slow and Quinn felt the strange exhilaration of following her into the deepest darkness of the city. The sounds of the traffic faded behind them, replaced by other noises; the banging of pans, of shouting into the night. Parents and children and families… Life. _

'_Here.'_

_The girl stopped so abruptly that Quinn almost knocked her over. _

'_Here?' _

_Quinn squinted her eyes into the darkness. They were between two buildings as far as she could tell, the alley narrow enough for her to lean back against one wall and touch the other with her elbow. _

'_Here,' the girl repeated, speaking quickly in Khmer as she gestured upwards. Quinn frowned, looking up towards the dark sky, the stars starting to emerge. With what sounded like a snort of laughter, the girl pushed herself against the wall and nimbly started to climb up, hauling herself quickly up the side of the building. Watching her dark outline disappear, Quinn sighed. It had been many years since she had run through Sue Sylvester's sudden death assault course on a regular basis, but as she resignedly tried to search in the darkness for handholds, the memory of her old cheerleading coach came back to her. _

_It didn't take long to scale the building and once she had reached the top, the girl's warm hand found hers again. Quinn blinked up to the night sky. Once out of the shadows of the buildings the moonlight highlighted the surreal underworld of the night, but beneath the beauty of the sky was the great sprawling city that spread out around her. _

_For the first time in three months, Quinn felt almost alive._

_The girl pulled at her hand and she let herself be led towards the edge, careful of her step. _

'_Here,' she whispered, gesturing to what appeared to be a sack. _

_Quinn squinted, confused, as she stepped forwards, but as she moved closer a cold chill ran through her as she realised that it was not a sack at all, but the body of a child._

'_Christ,' she breathed as she hurriedly moved to its side, feeling for the faint, thready pulse on the small wrists. His tiny chest moved weakly beneath her gentle fingertips._

'_Where are his parents?' she asked the little girl who simply shrugged in response. 'Does he have parents?'_

_The girl shook her head wordlessly, watching as the blonde woman gently run her hands over her friend. He groaned weakly, his emaciated body yielding beneath the light touch of her fingers. Although the hospital was not even functional yet, Quinn knew instantly that she needed to bring him there… that if she did not, he was unlikely to survive even another day. _

_Quinn's heart-rate had quickened, that familiar surge of adrenaline that she had experienced so often back home in the ER. For three months she had been building a hospital, for three months she had been arguing with suppliers for clean water and electricity in this strange and foreign land; for three months she had not practiced medicine. Not since that night. Not since John had died before her eyes. _

'_Nabir,' the girl stated again. Quinn looked at her, a frown on her features. _

'_My friend,' the girl repeated, 'Nabir.'_

_Beneath the crescent moon, Quinn reached out to her, squeezing the small dirty hand in hers reassuringly. Language may separate them, but humanity did not; across countries and oceans, it was the same. She gathered the boy's small body to hers, lifting him up easily. Through her shirt, through his prominent ribcage, she could feel his heartbeat against her own. In the darkest moments of the last few months, she had felt that there was nothing left for her in this world… that she had left it all behind her, but the feel of his dry skin against her seemed to crystalize a thought in her mind, a realisation… that if she saved just one child here, if she made even the smallest of marks on the world, then maybe the loss and suffering she had experienced would be worth it. That she had lived for something, in the end._

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

The streetlights glittered on the rainwater. Santana took a deep breath before she stepped out of the cab, carefully sidestepping the puddles on the sidewalk as she pushed open the door to the building. The foyer was impressive, all marble and gold, and the concierge looked up from behind his desk.

It was two in the morning.

Santana flipped her dark hair from her eyes.

'I'm here to see Ms Stanton-Lee,' she stated, trying to sound as confident as she wished that she felt.

If the request was unusual at this time in the morning, his expression did not reflect it.

'One moment, please.'

As he turned to speak quietly on the phone, Santana tried to calm the beating of her heart. It was a dangerous game to play, she knew that. A dangerous game that may end, for her, in disaster.

'Fifth floor,' the concierge instructed after hanging up a moment later.

'Thank you.'

Her heals clicked upon the marble as she crossed the foyer and stepped into the elevator. She jabbed at the button numbly, watching the lights follow their steady sequence.

Kimberly was waiting for her at the door to her apartment; the partner as perfectly put together in the early morning as she was in the early afternoon. Beside her, Santana felt like a mess. The redhead raised an eyebrow but said nothing, stepping aside to usher the associate into her spacious apartment.

The Latina stood awkwardly for a moment in the large sitting room, seeing and not seeing the cool, impersonal décor. Kimberly looked vaguely amused.

'I'm having a nightcap,' she said softly, walking gracefully to a cabinet on the far wall. 'Join me.'

Santana shrugged out of her coat, hanging it on the hook as Kimberly poured the scotch. She walked hesitantly to the armchair, perching on the edge of it uncomfortably as the partner set the amber liquid before her.

The elegant woman sat opposite her, waiting for her to speak.

She did not.

'Not to be rude, Santana,' Kimberly said finally, 'but why are you in my apartment at two in the morning?'

The Latina licked her dry lips, holding the glass firmly between her hands to keep them from twitching.

'I… I came to apologise,' she said, her voice sounding stronger to her ears than it felt, 'to apologise to you for my attitude towards taking the Waters case. It was inappropriate. I was… _inappropriate_.'

Kimberly raised a finely sculpted eyebrow, settling back against the cushions.

'You are entitled to an opinion,' she replied firmly, 'but you should not allow that to affect your work. _Especially_ when you are working for me.'

Santana swallowed, glancing up at the partner once more.

'I'm sorry.'

Her words were soft and Kimberly was surprised, so used to seeing the tougher side of the fiery associate.

'Good,' she murmured.

'I want to make it up,' the Latina stated, her eyes meeting the green of the woman opposite her, 'I want to be more involved in the case. Twenty-four, seven. I'll put in all the hours you need of me and more, I promise.'

'You already are…'

'I'll put in _more_,' the Latina promised, 'please… I really want to be part of this. To be part of your team.' She paused, taking a breath. 'I think that we can win this.'

Kimberly looked at her appraisingly, her green eyes narrowing. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere between them, the tension rising. They both knew that the partner had always favoured Santana, right from the start. The redhead tipped back her glass and swallowed her scotch in one mouthful before standing abruptly. Her eyes held the challenge that Santana knew that they would.

'Then be at the office at seven sharp,' she ordered coolly, walking towards the stairs. 'Now get out of my apartment, Lopez.'

As she stalked from the room, Santana allowed herself a small smile of success. It was a dangerous game to play... not only with her job, but with her life.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading - please review.<strong>


	25. Connections

Thank you to everyone who is still following this and who has reviewed - it is greatly appreciated. This is a bit of a filler chapter - but I promise that the plot will start to progress again in the next few. Enjoy.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 25 - Connections<span>

**Present.**

Rachel's fingertips glided over the piano keys slightly stiffly. It had been so long since she had played that it felt awkward, each note pressed too hard or not hard enough, each sound jarring despite being technically correct. In all honesty, the piano had never been her greatest instrumental love; she found it far too introspective to sit and play, but it was that very quality that had drawn her to it over the last few days. She had been uncharacteristically searching; processing.

There was a prickling feeling on the back of her neck; a slow warmth that spread across her skin.

Without looking up, she knew that Quinn was in the room with her, that the blonde was carefully keeping her distance. The notes jarred as Rachel's fingers slipped on the ivory keys and she stopped playing abruptly. The frustration that she felt was nothing to do with the music. She gritted her teeth to keep the irritated sigh from escaping her.

Instead of gaining the clarity that she had believed she could distil in the peace of their surroundings, each day that passed left her more confused.

More than ever, her relationship with the blonde doctor was oscillating between extremes; one minute their interactions held an iciness that chilled her to the core, but the next minute an accidental touch would set her skin on fire. It felt, to Rachel, as though the air was thick and heavy, that every word spoken was ready to start a storm that neither of them was in a fit state to weather. Worse than that, however, was that Rachel knew that it was her own turmoil that was driving their discord… for since the day that they had fled New York, Quinn had been painfully honest with her. Evenings were spent at a careful distance, speaking in low tones as layer by layer the woman she had known and somehow _never_ known revealed herself, peeling back each translucent skin, slowly and delicately. It was with a muted horror that Rachel absorbed each quiet word, and yet, somehow, she remained unsatisfied, pushing for more and more, reaching out and then retracting, again and again and again. It was painful.

She held her breath as she heard Quinn move around the room, glancing up to look at the doctor obliquely. The honey blonde hair framed her face, a serious set to the line of her full lips. She was wrapping her coat about herself.

'Where are you going?'

Rachel's question came out with more force than she intended it to, an accusation that made Quinn's spine straighten.

The hazel eyes cut to hers with a flash of impatience and it was just that kind of look, the look that reminded her so potently of the girl that Quinn had been, that made Rachel's belly dip. For days Rachel had been pushing her; pushing and pushing against her, and Quinn had yielded with seemingly endless patience to each of her questions and demands. It was only on seeing the spark of irritation in the blonde's eyes that reminded Rachel of what she was missing, and she did miss it, the steely strength that hovered beneath the soft skin.

'Does it matter?' Quinn asked, zipping up her coat deliberately. Rachel opened her mouth to respond, a little taken aback by the blonde's subtle shift in attitude. Quinn placed her hands into the pockets of the coat, turning fully to face the singer who remained seated at the piano.

'I won't go far,' she started with a deep weariness to her tone, 'I just need to get away.'

Rachel blinked.

'Away…' she stated blankly.

'Away from you,' Quinn replied quietly, shrugging her shoulders, 'I need to get away from you, Rachel.'

The words felt as though a sharp knife had cut into her, twisting painfully in her chest. Though Quinn knew her well enough to see the impact of her words on the singer, her brow did not soften, and neither did her eyes. She shook her head helplessly.

'I will only apologise so many times,' she stated flatly. 'You can either accept that or not, but it is not healthy to continue like this; not for me and not for you… We need space. We need to move on.'

It was a strange distress that stirred within her as she looked back at the doctor. A fear that she would finally lose her; that maybe the wounds would never heal, that the truth she was so painstakingly distilling was this.

'I don't know…' she started, vulnerably, the words that she was afraid of falling heavily from her lips, 'I don't know if I can forgive you.'

In the silence that followed, the light seemed to fade in Quinn's darkening eyes. Her body stilled and she sucked in a breath through her perfectly straight teeth. Rachel saw again the pain that she was causing the woman, yet couldn't help herself from inflicting it.

'That's your… choice,' the doctor replied, her voice hollow. 'But I am not going to apologise anymore…I am _done_, Rachel. I did what I did because I loved you.' She shrugged her shoulders, speaking so softly. 'You know that. I wanted to protect you, and it killed me that I had to hurt you to do it… but it was the only way, the only way that I could think of…'

Her lips closed around the words, forming a thin and final line.

'And I know why you can't forgive me,' she whispered, 'I understand, Rachel, because, we both know that, given the choice again… I would make the same decision.'

As she turned to leave, Rachel shot up from the piano, anger sparking once more.

'How can you say that?' she demanded, a furious frown crossing her features. 'After everything that has happened… after you and me, and Cambodia, and the documentary… and _everything_ that _will_ happen…'

A short burst of humourless laughter erupted from the blonde, almost disdainful in its outburst as it cut her off. The hazel eyes were hard, a hardness that had developed over the years; Quinn didn't need to speak aloud what was spoken plainly by her eyes. There was only so far that anyone could push her, and she had reached her limit. She turned to walk away, leaving Rachel calling out to her back.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present. <strong>

The offices of Goldberg, Cox and Lee were located in a high rise building in central Manhattan. In summer, the heat through the large glass windows threw the air conditioning system into overdrive, something that made Santana pleased that her office was on the North facing side of the building. However, in the darker months nothing could be more depressing than looking out into the rain that lashed against the glass. Today was no different; the storm clouds had gathered once again and Santana glanced up from the file that she was reviewing to frown out at the steely grey sky.

It had been four days since she had visited Kimberly's apartment in the middle of the night, four days since she had seen her son and wife drive away. She had barely left the office in that time, eating, drinking and sleeping there. Though sleep itself was evasive and when it came, it was haunted.

This wasn't the first murder trial that Santana had been involved with, but it was certainly the biggest. The key, her law school professor had once told her, to a good defence lawyer was tenacity. To aggressively pursue every line of enquiry that may help the client's case; in this aspect Kimberly Stanton-Lee took the job to a whole new level. It wasn't just the circumstances around one murder that they were trying to address but for twelve, and for each of them the list went on; forensic pathology, CCTV enhancement, DNA, ballistics, fingerprints. But if Stanton-Lee was the conductor in this production, then Santana was aiming to become her first violinist, and at the back of her mind she felt her uncertainty thicken.

'Why the change in attitude?'

Ben's voice startled her from the text that she had been reading and she looked up to see him hovering in the doorway.

'Good morning to you too,' she replied pointedly.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, stepping in to the office.

'Last week you couldn't get far enough away from this case,' he stated, 'and now you are practically living in the office.'

She had forgotten how irritatingly astute he could be when it came to reading her and rolled her eyes.

'I realised that my career is worth more to me than my morals,' she replied.

'Hmmm,' he shrugged in a non-committal manner, his eyes never leaving her face as he carefully shut the door behind him. 'Well… we both know that what will win this case.'

Aware that he was not going away she leant back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap.

'And what's that?' she raised a sceptical eyebrow.

Ben smirked.

'Money.'

Though it was likely to be true, a spike of irritation shot through her.

'This _firm_ is reputable, even if our client is not,' she stated, her tone brittle.

He seemed unfazed by her annoyance, that lazy smile crossing his features.

'Your _client_,' he echoed, tapping his fingertips against the door, once, twice. 'Is your client Joseph Waters? Or is it the Lucchese Family?'

Santana pursed her lips, biting back the quick retort that was ready on her tongue.

'What do you mean?' she asked instead and the smile faded from his lips, darkened his eyes.

'It occurred to me,' he started, 'just this morning, that maybe the Lucchese and Mr Waters do not have the same objectives. If they could so easily bribe a judge to grant him bail then why not do that in the first place? Why fuck around for nine months preparing a case?' He shrugged his shoulders. 'And most importantly, for you, why kill their lawyer?'

'We don't know who killed the lawyer.'

He shrugged. 'Not definitively.'

They were questions that, had Santana not had a plethora of other issues to deal with, she may have pondered herself. Each of them sounded as hard as a marble hitting the ground, questions that were statements, statements that were questions. Her head was already foggy with her own indecision; with half formed thoughts and formulations.

'Tell me what you are getting at, Ben,' she sighed irritably.

'What I'm getting at,' he responded quietly, 'is that maybe the Lucchese don't want Waters to get off… He had nine months to make a plea bargain with the prosecution, Lopez. Maybe he said too much. Maybe he _knows_ too much.'

She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, trying to stem the tension headache that she could feel forming like a steel band around her temples.

'You think that they want him dead?' she asked, almost disbelievingly; after the rollercoaster of the last week, she was sure that nothing would surprise her again.

'I'm just thinking aloud,' he replied evasively. 'But I will be amazed if this case gets to trial.'

Santana frowned, glancing down at the papers in front of her, her own dark thoughts gathering like the storm clouds. If her half-formed intentions were realised then they would certainly never reach trial; at least, not the trial that the Lucchese family intended for Joseph Waters.

* * *

><p><strong>Present.<strong>

The snow crunched below her feet as she steadily climbed the slope, cutting between the trees along the incline and steadying herself against the rough bark when the path became particularly steep. Although the cold wind cut through her, it was with a certain sense of exhilaration that Quinn pushed forwards, squinting against the glare of the sunlight on the untouched snow. As she reached the summit, her breath seemed to catch in her throat, though whether it was from the exertion of the climb or from the great expanse of the white valley that spread out before her, she could not tell.

It was the landscape from a dream, from _her_ dreams; never-ending and white and full of unfulfilled promise, the clear blue of the cold sky above, the rolling diamond white below. Through frozen lips, Quinn sucked in the cold air.

Each day, since they had arrived, she had climbed to this summit. Each day she had searched for answers, within herself, and without. She had prayed for solutions to the questions that she had posed, the web within which she had been entangled. Each day she had come back empty, the path ahead still so unclear. Her frustration was growing.

A bird, above, flustered in the branches, and Quinn squinted up at it as it fought to break free, only to fly away, dipping down into the valley and away. She watched it go with a strange sense of loss, following it until it faded to a dark spot against the white landscape and finally disappeared. Moments later, she heard the crunch of boots on the snow and turned quickly, recognising the brunette as she emerged from the woods.

Rachel looked up at her, her cheeks flushed from the climb and from the cold. Something about the set of her shoulders set Quinn on edge.

'Hey…' the singer breathed, catching her breath from the steep walk. She seemed to hesitate at the edge of the trees, at the unspoken boundary that neither could cross to the other.

Quinn couldn't help the surprise that fell upon her features, feeling suddenly and unexpectedly vulnerable. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest and she folded her arms defensively across her body. The tension between them crackled with a static kind of energy, the kind that hangs in the air before a great and devastating storm… she recognised it. Feared it. Aware of the devastation that Rachel could cause her.

'I…' Rachel started, seeming suddenly so unsure of herself.

The singer had clearly followed her in the snow, and despite the glorious views that spread out across the valley, the dark eyes were fixed upon the doctor alone. The cold wind blew the errant blonde hair across her forehead, seemingly stealing Rachel's words as well.

'I…' she started again, but struggled with whatever was coming next. The frown that settled on her features was filled with such frustration that it confused Quinn all the more. Instead the brunette shook her head to herself and barrelled on, taking the last few steps towards her.

'Rachel?'

In surprise, Quinn had finally found her voice, but the name seemed to wilt on her lips.

Rachel stopped opposite her, just out of reach, her hands clenching and unclenching by her sides. Sunlight glowed on her skin and Quinn felt the hairs rise across the back of her neck.

'Rach…' she started again, only to have the singer look at her sharply.

'Shhhh…' she whispered.

The brunette glanced out across the valley, at the winter sun that blazed in the sky, at the endless white and blue, a world frozen in time, but her eyes were drawn back to the pale features of the woman she had never stopped loving. When the wind died down, the day was still about them, the heavy silence of the snow and the woods and everything that had been in-between. That heavy silence of all the words unspoken, in the years that had passed.

'Just… _shhhh_…' Rachel murmured, her eyes blazing with such intensity that Quinn's breath caught. She could almost feel as the singer pushed against the invisible barrier between them, the space that was defined more by its emptiness than its existence. It was just a decision, a simple choice that crystalised. The blonde watched as Rachel stepped forwards, taking a steadying breath as she reached out across the distance between them.

The cold fingertips pressed gently against her cheek and Quinn felt her eyebrows knit together, afraid to break the unexpected moment that seemed so fragile. More slowly than any kiss they had ever shared, Rachel moved closer to press her parted lips against Quinn's own.

Soft and cold and gentle.

Hazel eyes closed against the feeling that was making her heart flutter in her chest. Instead of pulling away from her, Rachel's lips just became more insistent, pressing firmly against her own. The sweetness of her conflicting with her forcefulness, as gentleness melted away. Quinn's hand grasped at the front of the brunette's coat, pulling her closer, and almost overbalanced them both into the snow.

Above them, Quinn could hear another bird, its wings batting furiously against the tree as it made its escape up towards the clear blue sky. Rachel's hand tangled in her hair, kissing her hungrily, sacrificing finesse for intensity. She could feel the sharp edges of her perfectly-straight teeth as they nipped into her lower lip. When she finally pulled away, needing air and equilibrium, Quinn's eyes were bright and feverish, and in looking at her, Rachel's fingers tightened in her hair. The blonde made no move to pull away, shocked and breathless.

'I've been so stupid,' the brunette breathed.

'Rach…'

'Shut up,' the singer hissed against her, her dark eyes serious, 'just _shut up_, Quinn… Listen for once.'

The blonde's body seemed to be reacting on its own to the very proximity of the singer, she was almost trembling she realised, and instead of stepping away, Rachel was pulling her even closer. Their foreheads pressing together. Quinn closed her eyes, squeezed them shut as she tried to shut out the intoxicating smell of her, so familiar that it stirred hope within her. A certain kind of joy that she had denied herself for so long.

'I love you,' Rachel's words were more of a growl, deep and raw, 'and you love me…'

The hand that was tangled in her hair gripped her almost painfully, but the tears that squeezed from her eyes were brought there by something else entirely. They seeped, hot and stinging, to her frozen cheeks.

'I _love_ you, Quinn,' Rachel spoke through gritted teeth, forcing the words through her burning throat. It wasn't something that was said, as much as it was transmitted, through the very vibration of her body.

In the end, that was what it had distilled down to. All that had happened, the past, and the present, and the future. Everything that had happened and everything that would… For Rachel, there was one thread through it all, the point on which she turned. On which her life had always pirouetted. It was this one. This connection that had waxed and waned, stretched and contracted through the years. Like a flare in the night sky, she felt as though she were finally being guided home.

Rachel pulled the taller woman towards her, fitting their bodies together. She nuzzled into the warmth of Quinn's neck, breathing in the scent of her, and letting the memory flood over her.

'No matter what happens,' she promised quietly, and she had never meant anything so much as she did in that moment. 'No matter what…'

For they were made to be together. Rachel believed that now as much as she had believed it when they had been seventeen, that being with Quinn Fabray was like vanishing within another world, it was timeless, and overwhelming. Though the innocence was swirled now with cynicism, though they had changed, both of them, so irreversibly, she knew that, for her, it was, as it had always been, Quinn.

'I'm not letting you go again…' she whispered.

Against her she could feel the trembling of the blonde's body, and it took her a moment to realise that the woman was crying, the tears finally tracking down the alabaster cheeks. The realisation fractured something within Rachel. She pulled back, cupping the blonde's face in both hands and pressing soft kisses against the damp skin.

'I'll never let you go again.'

* * *

><p><strong>Lima. 2008.<strong>

_The sun was hot against her skin as she stretched out along the towel. A growth spurt over the recent months had left Brittany feeling long and awkward, suddenly taller than classmates she had been on the same level with the year before. She didn't know how to move with the extra height, walking heavily rather than elegantly. She had taken to slumping her shoulders a little to try to fit in again. It didn't help. She frowned at her long legs in the sunshine, wishing that she could simply go back to how she had been before. _

'_I don't really like Atticus,' Quinn sighed beside her, scrunching her nose up at the sky. Brittany glanced across at the quiet blonde, pulled away from her own thoughts about being a giant. _

'_I know I'm meant to like him, but his self-righteous attitude irritates me.'_

_She placed her copy of To Kill a Mockingbird face down on the grass and rolled over onto her front, looking intently at her friend. When Brittany had first met Quinn she had truly felt that the girl was glowing; soft butterscotch hair and golden eyes that glittered with a million secrets in their depths. In the sunlight, like today, she was reminded of that image; the glowing blonde in the crowd._

'_You don't have to like him,' Brittany offered and Quinn shrugged as though she didn't care, squinting her eyes up at the sky. It wasn't Atticus Finch, Brittany suspected, but men in authority that Quinn disliked, although she would never admit it. Quinn never really admitted anything, Brittany had realised through the months of knowing her. She may be popular and sociable, even friendly to people at times, but she was also so closed. Sometimes, Brittany wondered if, without Santana's boisterous influence, Quinn would have been quiet and isolated and serious. She could never get a handle on what the other girl was thinking. _

'_Let's do the stupid English assignment later,' Quinn suggested, 'the weather is too nice to read that stupid book.' _

'_Okay,' Brittany smiled. _

_Of course, Quinn didn't think the book was stupid. Brittany knew that as well. She knew a lot about Quinn Fabray that the other girl didn't give away, just through watching her. The little things. Like how she was reluctant to let anyone inside her house, especially when her parents were at home. Or how her eyes were always drawn to the brunette that Santana hated; the same girl that Santana hated only because she saw that Quinn's eyes were drawn to her. Their relationship was so confusing, and yet so simple; a tug of war. Inseparable and yet opposing. Brittany felt that the rope went through her now, ever since Quinn had invited her to sit with them that first day when Santana had done nothing but scowl. The rope went through her now and, with all these new and unusual feelings, it threatened to tear her apart. _

_She shaded her eyes from the sun as Quinn propped herself up on her elbows. The pages of her copy of To Kill a Mockingbird were worn and dog-eared. Even if she did claim to hate Atticus Finch, it had not stopped her from reading the book many times over. Brittany could see that too. _

'_Are you in love with Santana?' _

_The words came out in a startled rush, whispered on the breeze. _

_Quinn stilled, her blonde hair falling across the hazel eyes, her lips parted. In all the things that Quinn wouldn't say, Brittany knew that she understood her question. She understood why Brittany wanted to know, understood, somehow, the new and frightening feelings that were starting to grow within her. _

_She held her breath. _

'_I've been arguing with Santana since I was five years old,' Quinn said finally, as though that explained everything about their relationship. 'We will never stop arguing.'_

_The silence that she held was intense, her eyes narrowing at the taller girl. She knew what Brittany was asking her, she had seen the way that the blue-eyed girl would watch her friend, had seen her in turn become shy and happy and everything in between._

_ 'Don't hurt her,' she warned, her voice quiet. _

_Brittany didn't even blink as she looked up at the other girl. _

_The sound of a door slamming broke the fragile conversation; Quinn's body stiffening as she shot upright on the grass as though a string through her body had suddenly been pulled taut. Brittany followed her anxious gaze as angry voices drifted out; deep and masculine. She couldn't quite make out the words. _

'_Let's get out of here.'_

_It was not a suggestion and Brittany let herself be pulled to her feet, the books and towels left on the grass as the youngest Fabray ushered her out of the garden, through the small gap between the fence and the hedge. Behind them the voices drifted up like plumes of smoke in the summer air. With the dusty ground beneath her feet, Brittany wondered at all that Quinn Fabray would not say, at how strange it was to be young and in love and awaiting a future that would not come fast enough. _

* * *

><p><strong>Present.<strong>

Quinn's back slammed against the wooden door, the sudden impact knocking the air from her lungs just as Rachel's lips met hers again, kissing her demandingly. The iciness of the outside world seemed to melt away with the heat that was flowing between them and she felt herself moan, a guttural sound that tore itself from deep within her.

The singer's lips twitched predatorily before they met her neck, tracing a pulse point that had always sent stabs of electricity through her. She tangled one hand in her hair. Quinn's body jerked forward involuntarily, and she encircled the brunette's waist with her hands, pulling her closer. She had forgotten how well they fit together; puzzle pieces that had always clicked.

Rachel's kisses were bruising, more forceful than Quinn remembered her, and her body shivered beneath the possessive touch. On some level, she knew that Rachel was reclaiming her, that to truly address the disequilibrium between them they probably needed to fuck the hell out of each other. She closed her eyes as she felt Rachel's lips sucking at her pulse, gasping at the sensation in a manner that was very unlike herself. She was unravelling, she could feel it; every last thread of control fraying and snapping about her.

Quinn pushed back against the brunette, sharp teeth nipping down on the soft skin instinctively as she guided them towards the couch. Her frozen fingers tugged at clothing and, missing their intended destination, Rachel stumbled back onto the rug in front of the dying fire that she had built that morning. Quinn caught her in their momentum but not soon enough to keep them both upright, and instead they landed together on the floor.

At the tangle of the impact the spell was broken and Quinn let out a laugh, meeting Rachel's smiling eyes above her.

She caught her breath, glancing at the firelight.

'I've dreamt of this,' she admitted softly, ghosting her fingertips tenderly across the brunette's cheek. Rachel smiled down at her, eyes sparkling.

'I've dreamt of you.'

The fluttering feeling in her chest did not disappear as she reached up and started to slowly unbutton Rachel's shirt. The long dark hair cascaded down over her shoulders, a beautiful mess. Large brown eyes were almost black, fixed as they were on Quinn's face. There was desire there, and possession too, and something else, something indefinable.

Quinn traced her fingers down Rachel's breast bone, parting her shirt and shrugging her out of it. She cursed herself for her hesitance, but the dark shadows that haunted her days and her nights seemed to circle above them like vultures.

'You're sure you want… this?' she pressed, hesitating on the final word, trying to make it more impersonal.

Rachel pushed herself back, her jaw tensing. Tangling her hand in the front of Quinn's top she pulled her up until the surprised blonde was propped up on her elbows, their faces close.

'I want _you_,' Rachel stated firmly. 'What do I have to do to get that through your thick skull?'

Quinn blinked; reality seeming to crash down upon her like ice water, and Rachel could see the doubt as it flowed over her body. She slapped her fingers lightly against the blonde's cheek, jolting Quinn to look up at her again.

'No matter what happens next,' she repeated quietly; it was a promise, a declaration. But she needed Quinn to believe it, needed to make her realise that she had made her decision and would stick with it.

Leaning forward, Rachel captured the swollen lips once again; gently this time until, swept up in the sensation, she bit down against the blonde. So many nights she had been visited by this apparition, on nights she had spent with boyfriends and lovers… Quinn had never been far from her mind, never far from her touch, haunting her, but here she was, firmer, rougher, sweeter. The sweetest poison.

It took her a moment, but Quinn kissed her back with equal fervour, the dark thoughts evaporating as Rachel's confidence travelled down her body, peeling off her top and pushing her down again onto the rug. She unbuckled the blonde's belt, unzipping her jeans and tugging them down with an intent look crossing her features. As Quinn moved to push herself up again, the brunette practically growled, pinning her hands firmly above her head. In those hazel eyes, Rachel started to recognise the loneliness of the time that had passed, the vulnerability that Quinn fought so hard to hide. Yes, the layers had peeled away, the years had melted. Rachel suddenly felt older, somehow stronger, than before, protectiveness burning in her chest.

'Let me love you,' she whispered against the blonde's lips.

Quinn looked at her searchingly for a moment, uncertain. Then finally, beneath her body, Rachel felt the blonde start to relax, the tension melting from her as she gave the smallest of nods.

She knew that Rachel needed this. Needed to touch her, to feel her… to reconnect on that primal level that words could not reach. But, just as Rachel needed it, Quinn realised that she needed it to; to allow herself to be loved, to be wanted and needed and forgiven, in a way that she could not forgive herself.

'I trust you,' she murmured needlessly, giving herself to the sensations that threatened to overwhelm her; Rachel's lips against her skin; the sharp edges of her teeth, the gentle strength of her that she had never recognised before. Quinn stared into the abyss and allowed herself to fall.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading - please review.<strong>


	26. Acceptance and forgiveness

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this fic and who is following it - just because I had 24 hours stuck on a plane... and because it is easter today, I am able to post the next installment. Happy Easter!

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 26 - Acceptance and forgiveness<span>

**Present**

Rachel bit her lip, pausing in the doorway of the bedroom that they had chosen to occupy for the last few days. The golden morning light streamed through the window, silhouetting the blonde woman as she stood before it, looking out towards the snow-covered trees. Rachel let her eyes trail down Quinn's body, from the symmetrical angles of her shoulder blades down the long curve of her spine to the dip at the small of her back.

Desire was warm behind her breastbone, tightening in her belly.

Though she knew that it should have dissipated with the activity of the last few days, it smouldered there still and, if anything, it intensified each time they made love. Her body ached pleasantly, muscles stretched and kneaded, skin bruised from love bites and soothed again. They hadn't slept for more than a couple of hours at a time over the last few days; wrapping themselves around each other when they fell, exhausted, into dreamless slumber, only to wake again shortly after. Rachel's mind felt foggy; lost in that happy, contented haze of Quinn and herself.

Loath, as she was, to admit it, after the countless hours she was starting to feel sore but, like an addict, she simply found herself craving more.

Softly she padded on bare feet into the room, setting down the tray of coffee on the bedside table. The muscles in Quinn's back seemed to tighten, though she did not turn. Rachel stepped towards her. She felt as though she were stuck in a dream, the edges of it hazy and indistinct. She pressed a kiss against the soft skin of Quinn's shoulder, gently tracing the curve of her spine with her fingertip.

The blonde turned, catching her hand in her own and holding her still for a moment as they looked at each other. The morning light glanced off her skin and darkened hazel eyes flashed. She wore nothing but the delicate golden cross about her neck, the same one she had worn all her life. Despite the aching in her body, Rachel felt desire flood through her. The bow of Quinn's lips curled and Rachel's heart started to trip over its steady beat, held in that gaze.

As teenagers they had discovered each other; the innocence and mystery of every tentative touch as they had tried to explore the bonds between them, the secrets that their bodies held. When they had reconnected during college, Rachel had felt that Quinn was darker, somehow, as though half of her were always in the shadows. Their lovemaking, then, had been intense; coloured by all the experiences that they had had alone. And now... now it felt as though they were coming home.

Quinn kissed her hard, one hand slipping possessively to Rachel's waist, pulling their bodies together again. The brunette moaned involuntarily against her lips. They seemed to merge together, mixing with the ease of milk and water, the warmth of the light on their skin. Rachel's hand went to the sash of the robe but Quinn stilled it, linking their fingers together.

'Leave it,' she ordered, her voice low and Rachel felt a shot of electricity run through her, meeting the darkened gaze. She would never get enough of Quinn looking at her like that.

Quinn twirled her around by their linked hands, pushing her firmly up against the wall. At the sudden change in position, Rachel sucked in a breath, bracing herself against the plaster. She could feel the warmth of Quinn's body close behind her. Gentle fingertips swept the dark hair from her shoulders, lowering the silk of the robe down Rachel's back enough to kiss the nape of her neck. The tender touch sent tingles down her spine.

'You're mine,' the blonde whispered, her warm breath ghosting across Rachel's skin.

The brunette closed her eyes, a smile playing on her lips as she pushed herself back enough to press their bodies against each other. She needed contact, yearned for it. Quinn nuzzled into her neck, their linked hands still pressed against the wall, her other hand reaching around to hold the singer close to her body.

'I'm yours,' Rachel breathed, and at the words, Quinn's fingers flexed, her soft exhalation almost a growl against Rachel's neck. She parted the robe, her fingertips tantalising the silken skin of her inner thighs as they meandered up towards the apex.

Rachel groaned; rolling her hips for the contact that she was being denied. So much more than any lover she had ever had, Quinn seemed to instinctively understand her, tuned in to every movement of her body.

'I'm going to take you,' the words were whispered softly in her ear, the low tone raising the hairs on the back of her neck, 'I'm going to take you hard, Rachel, up against the wall...'

A thin layer of sweat sprung up across her skin, her breath shuddering as Quinn's fingers reached their destination. Her body felt electrified by every movement, by the taut anticipation of what was to come.

'I want to make you scream my name again.'

Rachel moaned loudly, biting down on her lip as the blonde's skilled fingers started to move across her sex. She shivered at the words that Quinn whispered in her ear, each shaped and delivered with pin-point precision.

She wasn't sure if Quinn had changed, or if the lens through which she viewed the blonde had subtly shifted on knowing the secrets that she had held so close to her. The darkness that Rachel had once worried would consume Quinn had solidified into something else, hardened against the strength that had always been at her core. Self-assured. Confident. She was a woman now, hints of the girl that she had been were fading away.

Even as she lost herself in sensation, Rachel could not help but feel the cool breeze of reality sweeping in. The heart fluttering fear that they were living on borrowed time.

If Quinn felt it too, it only served to make her hold on more firmly to the brunette, to impassion her movements until they could reach an oblivion in which they could both forget reality. Rachel gave herself over to the sensations that were flooding her, every nerve ending firing.

* * *

><p>'A close acquaintance of Broadway starlet, Rachel Berry, has confirmed rumours that she has checked herself into The Dunes, New York's elite rehabilitation facility, in the aftermath of her violent relationship breakdown with action star Tom Meyer.'<p>

Jasper scoffed, dropping down the newspaper onto the table.

'Well, _that's_ just ridiculous. I don't know why anyone reads this rubbish.'

Carlos glanced up from blowing bubbles in his chocolate milk, frowning seriously at him.

'Then why are you reading it?' He asked.

Turning his head slowly, Jasper glowered at the little boy. Carlos sounded far too much like Santana sometimes.

'Finish your chocolate milk, smart-arse,' he instructed with a shake of his head, ignoring the smirk on Brittany's face as she watched the two of them. While Jasper may profess to not like kids, and Carlos may profess to specifically not like Jasper, over the last few days they seemed to be getting on rather well. As though sensing what she was thinking, Jasper shot her a glare. 'Have _you_ found anything useful yet?'

She sighed, looking down at the newspapers and magazines that were strewn across their table in the diner, a half-finished pot of coffee between them.

'A few more about Rachel disappearing,' she shrugged her shoulders, 'a couple about an awards ceremony that she is meant to be performing at in a couple of weeks, productions that she is meant to be involved with... Nothing that places her anywhere but New York.'

'Her publicist must be pissed,' Jasper commented.

Now it was Brittany's turn to shoot him a glare at his use of language. The photographer rolled his eyes. They had been travelling around for the best part of a week and having to modify his behaviour and language to being "kid-friendly" 24 hours a day was starting to drive him crazy. On occasions like this he was tempted to teach Carlos all the swear words that he could possibly think of just to spite his overprotective mother.

'Carlos,' Brittany turned to her son who was, for once, being well-behaved as he quietly flicked through a comic book, 'why don't you put on your headphones and play your game?'

The little boy gave her a long-suffering sigh, clearly imitating one of the adults he had seen do the same thing. He knew that this is what they did when they did not want him to listen. Not that he had any interest in their boring adult conversations anyway.

'Fine,' he grumbled to himself, fishing the game out of his mother's bag and switching it on. He too was utterly bored with travelling around the country in a seemingly pointless manner and having to modify his behaviour to being around dumb Jasper all the time.

'Fiona Allen probably spun the rehab story herself,' Brittany said, thinking of Rachel's highly-strung publicist. Jasper took a sip of the bitter coffee.

'Devious bitch,' he smirked, looking back at the papers again.

Since they had switched off their phones on leaving New York in an attempt to become less traceable, following the news had been difficult. Although they had checked in with Santana a couple of times from payphones along the way they had otherwise been entirely cut off from their lives.

'Nothing on the trial?'

'Not yet.'

Each went back to their stack of papers, flicking methodically through them. With the initial adrenaline of their escape from the city long since faded, Jasper knew that they were each feeling worn out. The more he thought about it, the more this plan seemed to be a knee-jerk reaction to an event that had not yet even occurred. News about Joseph Waters had faded from the papers as the trial had yet to begin and though the advertising campaign for _The Young Idealist_ seemed to be gathering momentum he found it unlikely that a man on trial for murder was going to care about a previous mark that had gotten away. The only news of any relevance to their situation that he could find in the papers involved unsubstantiated rumours about Rachel Berry doing ridiculous things.

'Shit,' Jasper swore, his brow furrowing as all humour melted from his expression. Brittany glanced over at Carlos who was engrossed in playing on his game, his headphones on, before looking back at the photographer.

'What is it?' she asked with concern, dropping her own paper onto the table and watching him as he scanned the article.

'Jasper?'

He glanced up at her, his skin paling. Slowly he lifted the paper, smoothing down the crease and took a deep breath before he started to read.

'Irish-American organised crime boss, Michael "Uncle Mike" Quinn died of natural causes in the early hours of the morning,' Jasper's words were muted, his eyes flicking up to Brittany's before continuing. 'Quinn has controlled the south of Chicago for the last decade following a five-year bloody turf war with rival gangs... Police have increased their presence in the city for fear of increased mob-related street violence following his death... He leaves behind no family.'

Brittany looked as though she had seen a ghost, her lips parted.

'Jesus,' she murmured, glancing once again at Carlos. 'Jesus Christ…'

Jasper pushed his coffee away, feeling suddenly nauseated.

'I wonder if she knows…'

* * *

><p>Quinn smiled gently against Rachel's neck, pulling the sheet up over her body. She traced her fingertips up the brunette's wrist, from the criss-cross of veins beneath the delicate skin up to the curve of her elbow. Every inch of her body; all the patterns on her skin, all the maps of memory that had been re-explored.<p>

'This one is new,' Rachel commented lazily, brushing the blonde hair from Quinn's forehead and tracing the faded silver scar that crossed her hairline. Quinn pressed a kiss against the brunette's collar bone, before resting her head down against her chest once more, her limbs feeling heavy and sated from their love-making.

'It is,' she murmured, her fingers never stopping their journey along her lover's skin. 'A bike accident… Phnom Penh.'

'A long time ago?'

Quinn closed her eyes, thinking of it. The chaos on the roads, the noises and sights and sounds of the place that she had left behind. Words conveyed it all so poorly. That day, in her memory, had been hot beneath the blazing sun that bleached the colours from the world. How the accident had happened she did not know, lucky enough to have only been on the periphery of it and thrown clear across the road as her moto skidded to a halt. The sound of screaming had assaulted her ears, the sweet smell of blood and engine oil thick in the humid air. A tangle of metal and torn limbs strewn across the dusty street. With blood stinging her eyes as she had tried to open them, a concerned Australian tourist had helped her from the scene, another doctor; Jessica.

'Long enough,' she replied.

Her body ached; the aftermath of passion that had claimed hours and days and blurred them all together. Day and night merged and faded to obscurity; Quinn knew nothing of which day it was now, of which night had passed, just of each touch that fused them two together again. While she knew that the outside world awaited them, she resented it, with the very thought that she would have to ever leave this cocoon.

'Santana will arrive soon,' Rachel murmured, as though reading her thoughts. 'And Brittany,' Rachel added softly, watching her.

The taller blonde had been carefully absent from their conversations and Quinn had no desire to talk of her, to even acknowledge her. At her lover's silence, Rachel sighed, gently running her fingers through the silky blonde hair. They had forgotten the world, and Rachel would be happy if it all just remained forgotten, if they could live forever in this bubble away from the world.

'There is something that I need to tell you,' Quinn spoke softly into her skin, her fingers stilling against her.

For days, they had banished the dark words of the days before, but from the serious tone, Rachel could feel that the interlude was over. She took a deep breath, that slow feeling of dread coming over her.

'You can tell me anything,' she whispered.

The quiet tension in the blonde's body seemed to melt a little at the words. She rested her head down against Rachel's chest, looking out towards the sky.

'I came back to see him,' Quinn said softly, 'to see Michael.' She frowned as she spoke, not looking up at the brunette. 'My father.'

Rachel's fingers in her hair did not stop their gentle movements, listening closely to each and every inflection.

'He's dying,' Quinn said simply, shaking her head as though her own thoughts puzzled her. 'I needed to see him.'

Rachel felt that same protectiveness start to burn within her as she watched the blonde struggle to process her own emotions. For all that this man had done, for the chaos that he had made of her life, there remained some strong bond there, a kinship that had pulled her back to his side. Rachel could see it, even if Quinn could not. Her desire for family; to know the man who was her father, to know who she was... To know what anchored her to the world.

'I wanted to understand,' the blonde murmured, 'to understand why...'

The words hung heavily in the air between them and Rachel was reminded sharply of a night, many years before, when she had professed that desire herself. That lost feeling suffusing her as she had asked, into the darkness, why? Just like Quinn, she had wanted to know. To try to understand the convoluted paths that their lives had taken, the push and pull of forces outside of their control.

'…but there isn't an answer,' Quinn whispered. 'And there never will be. I think I knew that before I saw him. That life is life and sometimes there is no logic or reason to the choices that we make. That fate runs on, through each of us.'

Rachel reached down, gently raising the woman's chin until they were looking at each other again. There were no words that she could think of to say that would convey what she wished to convey. They had all been said many times over. Quinn held her gaze, letting her see everything that could not be put into words.

'I needed to forgive him,' she said finally, her brows knotting together.

'Could you?'

Quinn shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. For many days the events at the hospital had been turning over and over in her mind. Though everything pressed her to silence, the gentle acceptance in those dark eyes invited her to speak. Resting her head down against the brunette's chest, she could hear Rachel's heart beating steadily beneath her breastbone, the sound of it calming her own.

Hesitantly, she started to speak.

* * *

><p><strong>Chicago. 2 weeks ago. <strong>

_It had been many years since Quinn had been in Chicago. Many years since she had seen Michael shoot dead the man that had been responsible for murdering her family. All the tumultuous emotions that had occupied her since she had arrived back in the U.S seemed to freeze as she approached her intended destination. The street lights of the city blazed into the night at regular intervals, like a metronome ticking away time, her heartbeat counting steadily onwards. Questions ran over in her mind, persistent and torturous. _

_She parked a couple of blocks from the hospital, pulling the hood up over her blonde hair as she stepped from the car. Walking into the hospital felt strangely familiar, even though she had never been there before, it was as though she knew it. The strange chaotic feeling of the ER almost brought a pang of nostalgia to her as she cut through the waiting crowds, slipping easily among them towards the restroom. On locking the door she unzipped the duffel bag, changing quickly into the neat uniform of a physiotherapist and carefully clipping on the security badge that Roy had procured for her. She met her own eyes in the mirror above the sink, searching for doubt. She had travelled across the world for this, but even now she was tempted to turn and leave rather than go through with it. She tightened her jaw, glaring at herself. _

'_Grow up, Quinn.' _

_It was not difficult to stash the bag in one of the storage cupboard; at this time in the evening the corridors were empty and dark, lit intermittently by fluorescent lights that spilled ghostly light across the cold, hard surfaces. The sound of her footsteps echoed as she walked._

_Outside the ITU she paused before pressing the badge against the security button. The doors slid open before her and she walked through, the tightness constricting in her chest. The unit was quiet; nurses working in the dim light. She paused for a moment, her eyes quickly scanning the room before her eyes settled on the two police officers that guarded the entrance to one of the side rooms. _

_She moved towards them. _

'_Excuse me, Ma'am,' one of them placed his beefy hand on her shoulder, stepping forwards as she approached. 'There is no entry without authorisation.'_

_She glared pointedly at his hand and he removed it. _

'_I'm part of Mr Quinn's medical team,' she stated flatly._

'_There is no entry without…' he started again. _

'_You cannot interfere with clinical care,' she interrupted him firmly, her eyes hardening. 'This is a hospital, he is a patient…'_

_The officer glanced over at his colleague who was leaning against the wall. He sighed deeply. _

'_Who are you?' He asked pointedly and she raised an eyebrow as she held out her badge. _

'_On-call physiotherapist,' she stated as he inspected it closely, 'to help him with his breathing. He's been struggling.'_

_The man pursed his lips, nodding slowly._

'_Fine,' he said finally, handing her back the badge, 'go ahead.'_

_She opened the door carefully, slipping quietly inside the room. The lights were dimmed in here as well, casting deep shadows across the figure beneath the bed sheets. Her eyes flicked up to the monitor, the trace of his heartbeat running steadily across the screen, his blood pressure, his respirations, his sats… she saw it and didn't see it. Not the bag of saline that hung from the drip stand, nor the syringe pump of morphine by his bedside. All this she took in and more. Yet all that she really saw was the body beneath the sheets. The oxygen mask strapped to his face, the chest drains on the floor beside his bed. He seemed so small somehow, so fragile, and it froze her to the spot._

_In that way that occurs when you feel someone's eyes upon you, Michael seemed to stir, pulling at the oxygen mask even before his eyes blinked open. Quinn instinctively stepped forwards to help him, before catching herself and freezing in place once more. His eyes were dark as they fixed on her; she felt her heart speed within her chest. _

'_Judy?' he rasped. _

_She stepped forwards at the word, further into the light. _

'_It's Quinn,' she replied softly, reaching for the plastic chair and bringing it to his bedside before sitting hesitantly down. His eyes followed her, a line forming between his brows. _

'_You look so like her,' he said softly, 'sometimes, now… I see ghosts all about me.' He pulled the mask away from his face entirely, pushing it across the bed. He seemed focused on the shadows for a moment before looking back up at her. 'I wait for them.'_

_Quinn took a steadying breath._

'_I'm real,' she said quietly, reaching out hesitantly to take this hand in hers. His skin felt dry against her own, but as she held the cold fingertips, he tightened his grip on her as though grasping for a lifeline. _

'_You shouldn't be here,' he told her, 'it's not safe…'_

_She listened in silence, focusing on the timbre of his voice. Holding it within herself as though she could keep it safe there, replay it._

'_The vultures are circling about me, Quinn,' he said, 'already they're pecking at my corpse… Taking little bits of me.'_

_She nodded slowly. The sword of Damocles suspended by a horsehair above his head._

'_No one will know that I am here,' she assured him, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles. She was reminded acutely of the first time that they had met, at the funeral, of the broad man that had cast his shadow across her then, his cheeks fuller, his presence quiet and assured. This was not that man now. This was a man who had lost too many people, a man who had battled all his life and was now tired. Tired of life; tired of fighting. _

'_You're the last of us,' he said earnestly, holding her gaze intently as his eyes filled, 'you're the last of us, Quinn. My daughter. My beautiful, beautiful daughter…'_

_He broke off, overcome with a fit of coughing that caused him to grasp at his side, wincing in pain. She pressed the button of his morphine pump for him, waiting for the stabbing pain to subside. _

'_I came to see you,' he went on when he could, 'I came to see you… when you were just a few days old… You were so small; tiny fingers, tiny toes. You slept the whole time that I held you...' he shook his head, and Quinn felt her chest tighten in that painful way that signified the onset of tears. 'I wanted to protect you… I needed to be strong to protect you. To protect Johnny…. But somewhere in the process I lost you. I lost both of you.'_

_Quinn felt the tears slip traitorously over her eyelashes. She squeezed his cold fingers. _

'_I'm here now,' she whispered. _

_His eyes met hers again in the low light, his head rolling over towards her on the pillow._

'_I never wanted to let you go,' he murmured, with his other hand he reached out towards her, towards the necklace hidden beneath the stolen uniform. 'I gave you that cross that day… The cross my grandmother had given to me… I had never taken it off.'_

_Instinctively, Quinn touched the thin chain at her neck. Though she had battled with religion through her life, she had kept the necklace. It was more to her than a symbol of religion; it no longer held that power over her, but something else entirely. It was a talisman, a symbol of her survival, against the odds, against everything. It wasn't God. It was purpose, and life, and love, and fate. _

'_You opened your eyes,' he said softly, 'just before I set you down, you just opened your eyes and stared at me. You didn't cry… or whimper… or moan. You just stared at me, with such large dark eyes that I felt that I could see everything in them; the future, the past, the person that I was…'_

_She swallowed against the lump in her throat, looking down as she did, to the floor. If she had had questions, then they had evaporated from her. For everything that had passed between them… it was too late for that now. _

'_I'm sorry,' his voice broke at the words. _

'_Shhhh…'_

'_I'm sorry,' he repeated, his voice harder, and she closed her eyes against the words, suddenly not wanting them._

'_Michael…'_

'_I couldn't see it then,' he persisted, coughing again, 'how everything comes to an end… how everything burns and crumbles... no matter how high, nor how strong. I couldn't see it then…. How your actions change you... How, all that is left of me is you… it is that cross about your neck.'_

_Quinn swiped at the tears that were clinging to her eyelashes, her chest burning. _

'_I tried to be strong,' he repeated, 'I tried to be strong… But Johnny is dead… Judy too… And the vultures are circling, waiting for me to crumble and fall as well… There are knives at my back, Quinn. I see them in the shadows…'_

_His fingers tightened about hers and she squeezed them back. Until this moment, she had wondered whether she was capable of forgiveness. Whether she had the capacity for it. After everything that he had done, the influence that he had exerted over her life, not to mention the life that he had led. The bloodshed, endless bloodshed. Her eyes were drawn to the window, the lights of the city beyond glittering behind the glass. In this moment, Quinn found acceptance easier than she had ever imagined, but not forgiveness, and it drifted out and up towards the night sky._

'_I'm dying,' he whispered, so quietly that it was almost drowned out by the sound of the machines. She looked back towards him. His eyes held the kind of resignation that she recognised from years of working in the hospital. It made her heart thud harder against her ribcage._

'_I know,' she replied gently. _

'_I didn't think that you would come…' His voice was soft, exhausted from all the talking._

_She felt her lips twist as she leant towards him, smiling through the tears. The lump in her throat was burning. She swallowed against it. _

'_You're my father,' she whispered, her heart beating fast. He held her eyes, the same hazel as his own. In those words, he understood the acceptance that she was offering him. For, through the years, Quinn had grown also. She too had lost much, she too had tried to be strong for the people that she loved, made decisions that would destroy them. She could not forgive him, she knew that now._

'_There is something… something important I need you to know,' he said finally, each word becoming a struggle against his breathing. _

'_Rest for a moment…' _

'_It's important,' he insisted, 'the most important thing. Please…'_

_The quiet urgency of his tone stilled her._

'_Over the years, I have done many things… many terrible things, Quinn, things that will condemn me at the gates of hell…' he spoke quietly. _

'_I know,' she murmured, the image of the dead man with his brains and blood and bone splattered across the floor of that cold basement years ago flashing once more through her mind. Michael saw death with indifference, saw murder dispassionately. _

'_I… kept records of everything, Quinn,' he said softly, looking at her intently, 'decades of them… Not just records. Tapes. Videos. Digital recordings… evidence that would implicate hundreds of people, from Chicago… New York… New Jersey. Not just me like me… but police, and Senators ,and Judges, and businessmen. The whole goddamn country, and all its rot.'_

_Quinn stared at him, her mouth going dry. _

'_No one knows that I kept them,' he told her, 'not even Roy… Not even Roy. It was for security. Paranoia.'_

'_Why are you telling me?' she cut him off, feeling the tendrils of his influence reach up to grip at her again. Even as he lay dying, he was managing to ensnare her. _

'_I want you to have them,' Michael replied, 'I want you to have them, Quinn. You can destroy them, if you want… or you can start to make things right…'_

_She stiffened, not certain that she understood… but afraid that she understood all too well. _

'_You want me to release them?' she asked softly. 'To take them to the police? The FBI? You have always told me how corrupt they are… that every level of society can be bought...'_

_He held her gaze._

'_I know how dangerous it sounds,' he acknowledged, resting back against the pillow._

'_It sounds like suicide,' she stated. _

_He squeezed her fingers once again. _

'_I trust you, Quinn,' he murmured, 'I trust you to do the right thing. The things that I could not.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present.<strong>

'I'm too old to have hickeys,' Quinn grumbled, studying her reflection in the mirror as her finger tips probed the violet bruise that bloomed across her neck. Rachel looked back over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow at her lover.

'Apparently you're not,' she murmured dryly.

Quinn carefully tied the scarf about her neck, positioning it to cover the bruise. Her hazel eyes flicked to the brunettes with a mild glare.

'_Don't_ look so smug, Berry,' she warned.

Rachel smiled as she straightened her coat, stepping towards the blonde and wrapping her arms around her waist.

'If you keep talking to me like that, I'm going to take you straight back to bed,' she murmured in the blonde's ear, causing the doctor to chuckle. She turned around in Rachel's arms, brushing the dark hair from her eyes.

'Absolutely not,' she stated with a smile, 'we both need some fresh air…'

Her words were cut off by the sound of a car engine approaching and the smile faded from her face. For days they had been left alone, with nothing but the silence and the stillness about them. Quinn's body tensed.

'Wait here,' she said firmly, moving quickly and quietly across the cabin towards the back door. Her fingertips glanced over the butt of the hunting rifle that she had found in the small outhouse; it was armed and ready at the door.

She narrowed her eyes, using a mirror to peer out of the window to the figures who were quite cheerfully disembarking the car. She recognised Jasper's broad frame almost instantly.

Rachel bounded to the door as Quinn was placing the gun back on the top shelf.

'_Rachel_,' she said with irritation, 'I told you to wait.'

The brunette rolled her eyes, opening the door.

'If it wasn't Santana then you would have stopped me by now,' Rachel reasoned, placing a placating kiss on the blonde's lips, not in the least intimidated by Quinn's frown. 'Come on.'

The brunette stepped out into the snow where she could already see Carlos running in circles round the car in the snow, his arms spread out. Though the quiet cocoon of their existence had been invaded, Rachel could not help the warmth that swept through her at seeing the little boy. There was something about his presence that always filled her with such hope.

'Auntie Rach! Auntie Rach!' he called on seeing the singer, running over and launching himself at Rachel so powerfully that they did topple over into the bank of snow behind, a giggling snowy mess.

'What took you so long, kiddo?' Rachel asked playfully, pulling up his hat slightly so that she could see his eyes. The boy shook his head with exaggerated weariness.

'_Adult_ stuff,' he sighed dramatically causing her to chuckle.

She kissed his cold cheeks, setting him back up on his feet.

'Will you build a snowman with me?' He asked her excitedly, 'and an igloo? Or a snow den? And go sledging?'

Rachel laughed at the barrage of questions, straightening the scarf about his neck to keep him warm. Considering how much it had snowed in New York in the winter just passed, she would have imagined that he was sick of the stuff. Apparently she was wrong.

'We will see,' she chuckled, seeing Quinn out of the corner of her eye as she walked unhurriedly towards the car.

Carlos' gaze was drawn to the doctor as well and the smile faded from his face, an expression of pained indecision settling there instead. His body seemed to tense and Rachel could feel the conflict within him, suddenly aware that the two had not interacted since Quinn had found out that Carlos had burnt her passport the week before. To Rachel that day felt like a lifetime ago, but to Carlos it was still fresh in his mind and he was afraid of the reception that he would receive from the doctor. Rachel was about to nudge him in Quinn's direction with a couple of words of encouragement when the blonde spoke.

'Where's Santana?'

Rachel glanced up. She had been so caught up with Carlos that she hadn't really looked at the adults around the car. Brittany and Jasper glanced at each other; the photographer stepping forwards carefully.

'Where is Santana?' Quinn's tone hardened, covering the fear that laced the words. Rachel felt her hand on Carlos' shoulder tighten, holding him to her. She held her breath.

'New York,' Jasper raised his hands in an attempt to pacify his friend, knowing that the blonde was about to erupt. 'She's in New York.'

* * *

><p>The atmosphere within the cabin was tense.<p>

Rachel stoked the fire with a sigh, her eyes drawn to the blonde who stood by the stove, glaring out at the snow as she stirred the pasta sauce. She knew better than to try to approach Quinn whilst she was in a mood such as this, and apparently Jasper and Brittany were both of the same opinion, for the photographer had made himself scarce and Brittany had been unpacking quietly in the room she would be sharing with her son.

The front door opened and closed quickly behind Jasper and Rachel's eyes flicked up to him. He met her gaze as he carefully undid his boots and stepped out of them. Despite their tense relationship, in the recent weeks Rachel had to admit that she had started to see glimpses of what Quinn liked about the man. She shook her head in warning, silently communicating with him not to even bother approaching the blonde. At she wasn't chopping vegetables anymore.

'Where's Carlos?' Brittany asked softly, appearing in a doorway.

'_He_…' Jasper sighed irritably, 'is refusing to come inside.'

Rachel raised her eyebrows, amused at the annoyance on the man's face.

'You do realise that _you_ are meant to be the adult in that relationship, Jasper,' she reminded him teasingly and he turned his glare on her.

'He climbed up a tree,' the man replied, '_you_ try getting him to come down. He is a stubborn little shit.'

Rachel actually laughed; amused at her nephew's antics, while Brittany sighed, shaking her head as she resigned herself to going back out into the cold.

'I'll get him,' Quinn offered, surprising them all. With deliberate movements she turned down the heat on the stove and placed the spoon in its holder before turning around, her gaze landing on Rachel. 'Watch the sauce for me. It's nearly ready.'

She grabbed her coat and was out of the door before any of them had regained the faculties to speak at all. Rachel bit her lip. Jasper winced.

'Why do I feel as though Carlos is about to get knocked out of his tree?'

* * *

><p>Quinn buried her hands in the pockets of her coat, breathing the cold air deeply and exhaling it slowly. The fury that she felt at Santana's decision to remain in New York was still burning brightly inside her and she had the strong desire to smack some sense into her old friend. A desire that was so potent that the Latina was lucky that they were so many miles away from each other.<p>

She kicked at a mound of snow, feeling childish even as she did it. It was particularly unsatisfying; yielding too easily and flying in an arc through the air.

'Goddamn it,' she hissed, clenching and unclenching her hands. 'S_tupid fucking idiot_.'

She paused, taking another deep breath and looking up to the blue of the sky. Her temper had always been fierce; something that she had ironically blamed on Russell. She had fought for the ability to control and channel it, to hold it within herself when she felt the need to lash out. Quinn had seen the devastation that anger could cause; to relationships, to people, to marriage. She knew how it could ruin lives with just a split second loss of control.

But she knew Santana; knew that the Latina had waited purposefully until Quinn herself had left before telling the others that she would stay on in New York. Knew that Santana probably had some half-thought through scheme in mind, something stupid and dangerous that was likely to get her killed.

'Santana,_'_ Quinn glared at the sky before kicking at the snow again, wishing that telepathy could possibly work. 'I am going to kick your ass so hard when I see you. You stupid arrogant woman.'

She exhaled, hoping to release some of the fury before trudging through the snow towards the woods.

It did not take her long to find the little Lopez-Pierce, and she stood at the bottom of the tree, looking up at him for a moment. Watching him, her anger seemed to melt away. She knew that he felt uncertain of their relationship, afraid that she didn't love him or want him after what he had done with her passport, and she suspected that his sudden tree-dwelling desire stemmed, in part, from this. Just like Santana who, at the same age, would run away and hide whenever she felt that she was in trouble. All too often, as a child, Quinn had found herself crammed into the smallest hiding places to keep her company.

'What are you doing all the way up there, tiger?'

She couldn't quite make out his expression as he looked down at her, swinging his legs over the branch that he was sitting on.

'Nothing,' he replied shortly, pausing for a moment. He shrugged a small shoulder. 'Jasper's being an idiot.'

Quinn hummed in a non-committal manner.

'Are you going to come down for lunch?' she asked neutrally, shading her eyes from the bright sunlight. He shook his head.

'Don't want to come down,' he replied.

Quinn allowed herself a small smile; this was definitely Santana-running-and-hiding behaviour, though she hoped that Carlos never became as good at hiding as Santana had.

'That's a pity,' she stated, watching him carefully before shrugging, 'I wanted to show you something… but I guess that I can go on my own if you want to stay up there.'

She started to turn away, slowly, when his voice called out to her again.

'Show me what?' he asked hesitantly, and Quinn smiled to herself, glancing back up at him.

'Just a place,' she replied clearly, 'somewhere special that I found… up in the woods.' She waited for a heartbeat. He was so much like his mother that it made her heart ache with a strange kind of nostalgia. 'I wanted to share it with you…'

The little boy seemed to hover in indecision, his legs swinging over the branch.

'…but I can go on my own,' she finished.

Quinn turned, starting to walk very slowly into the woods, not looking back.

Before she had taken more than a few steps she heard the crunch of snow as the boy landed on the ground at the foot of the tree. She stopped to wait for him to catch up and feigned surprise at seeing him, raising her eyebrows.

'It was getting cold,' he stated with a shrug of his shoulders.

'Right,' she murmured, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

He was so uncharacteristically uncertain in her presence that it made her ache. She knew that she should have found the time to talk to him after the incident but events had spiralled out of control and opportunities had vanished.

She offered him her hand, meeting his dark eyes.

'Come on, tiger.'

Carlos' normal exuberance was subdued as they climbed together through the woods. He was quiet until they reached the plateau that Quinn had been aiming for. Someone, probably Rachel's grandparents, had built a bench on this plateau that looked out over the valley.

'Wow,' he breathed, letting go of her hand to walk towards the edge. Quinn watched him closely as he moved, folding her arms across her chest.

'Not too close to the edge,' she warned.

'Has anyone else come up here?'

'Only you,' she replied quietly, 'and me.'

She swept the snow from the bench with one gloved hand, until it was clear, and sat down upon it. The boy was looking out across the valley and she watched him silently for a moment, loosing herself in his childish wonder.

'Come here, sweetheart,' she said after a moment, patting the empty space on the bench beside her, 'we need to talk.'

Carlos looked back at her, his expression changing as he recognised the serious tone to her voice. Reluctantly he stepped towards her, chewing on his bottom lip as he settled down onto the bench at her side.

'What do we need to talk about?' he asked hesitantly, his gaze shifting between her and the snow.

Quinn watched her breath form a mist before her in the cold air before turning on the bench to face him.

'About what happened the other day…' she stated, 'with my passport.'

He glanced up at her with wide eyes, suddenly sitting very still.

'I'm sorry,' he said quickly, the words falling from his lips in a jumble, 'I'm really, really, _really_ sorry…'

'I know that you are, sweetheart,' she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, 'but we still need to talk about it, okay?'

He nodded reluctantly, his eyes downcast.

'Your actions made me very upset, Carlos,' she stated quietly, watching him closely. 'They hurt me. Did you realise that?'

He looked up at her, chewing on his bottom lip in the way that he did when he was nervous. It was a mannerism that reminded her more of Brittany than Santana, and Quinn found it strangely charming.

'I just wanted you to stay,' he replied earnestly, his voice tremulous. 'Everything is better when you are here. Mami wanted you to stay too, and Auntie Rach, and Jasper…'

Quinn sighed, thinking of the mess that her presence had caused to all of their lives. Of how everything was so uncertain now. She shook her head, clearing her thoughts.

'I know that you wanted me to stay,' she said softly, 'but that was definitely not the way to do it. You stole from me, Carlos, and you broke my trust. That is not behaviour that I would like from the people that I love… and I love you very much, darling. '

She looked at him seriously. The boy looked away, down at his boots in the snow.

'Look at me, baby,' she instructed gently, waiting for his eyes to meet her own again before going on. 'Do not _ever_ steal from me again,' she said quietly.

The words seemed to hang in the air and tears were welling in his large dark eyes.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered, and she nodded, pulling him towards her and letting him bury his face into her shoulder.

'I know, sweetie,' she murmured, wrapping her arms about him, 'I know. You're still my favourite nephew, Carlos. I still love you. Very, very much. Nothing will change that. Ever.'

She held him close to her. The afternoon light was fading and she knew that she should be getting them back to the house soon, but held onto him a few moments longer. Her thoughts tumbled quickly on; Michael Quinn, Joseph Waters, Santana Lopez, Carlos… The thought of him in danger, the thought of him hurt, sickened her.

She tightened her grip on the boy, her eyes hardening as she looked out to some unknown point somewhere in the distance. Quinn made a promise to herself then, in that moment as she held onto the boy that was as dear to her as if he had been her own son. She promised that she would fix this. Somehow, she would fix this, for all of them.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading - please review.<p> 


	27. Protectiveness

Chapter 27 - Protectiveness

**New York. 2021.**

'_When is your fucking landlord going to fix the fucking elevator?' Santana snarled, pausing beside the elevator in question to catch her breath. Rachel shot her a glare, which would have had more of an impact if she hadn't been thinking the same thing. _

'_You don't kiss your innocent little son with that mouth, do you?' the singer asked pointedly. _

_She had never been one for swearing and, though less vocal about it than she had been as a teenager, she was far from impressed with colourful language. She leant back against the plaster of the wall to catch her breath; the heat of the summer was thick in the stuffy air of the stairwell and she could feel the sweat beading at the back of her neck. _

'_There is nothing innocent about Carlos,' Santana stated firmly, rolling her dark eyes, 'I'm pretty certain that the sperm donor was the Devil…'_

_Rachel snorted and Santana turned her gaze on the singer. _

'_You think that I'm kidding?' she asked with an exasperated look, 'just wait until you two have kids, Berry, and you won't be so smug; even the simplest of tasks become monumental. He has reached the stage at which the minute we tell him to do something, he refuses and the moment we tell him not to he does it on purpose...'_

_The singer smirked._

'_I guess that explains his new haircut,' she quipped, before turning to the next flight of stairs with resignation. They had two more flights to go before they reached the haven of the air-conditioned apartment._

'_Don't even get me started,' the Latina groaned, pushing off the wall to follow the shorter brunette, 'that was the result of some major glue incident at kindergarten…'_

_Rachel stifled a laugh. Quinn was always going on about how similar she felt that Carlos was to a young Santana, so much so that Rachel felt that she was starting to understand the Latina all the more from her interactions with the smart little boy. _

_Santana glowered at seeing the expression on her face. _

'_You wouldn't think he was so charming if you lived with him,' she stated before starting in a mocking, sing-song voice, 'Can you get dressed please? No. Can you get ready for bed please? No. Can you brush your teeth please? No. Can you wash your hands please? No…'_

'_I get the picture,' Rachel cut her off, swiping an errant strand of dark hair from her eyes._

'_It is driving me crazy,' Santana sighed, shaking her head as she climbed, 'even this morning he was sulking so much that I actually felt guilty for leaving him with Q…' _

_Rachel huffed the air out of her lungs as they reached the next landing, shaking her head. _

'_I'm sure Quinn can handle a sulking five year old,' she laughed, rummaging for her keys in her handbag. Santana flattened herself against the wall next to the door to the apartment that Rachel and Quinn had shared ever since the blonde had moved to New York. _

'_Your air-conditioning had better be working,' she growled as Rachel started to fumble with her keys in the lock, pausing after she had undone the first and frowning at the paintwork._

'_Can you hear that?' she asked quizzically, cocking her head to the side. Santana scowled as she listened, and sure enough, a sickeningly upbeat baseline seemed to be seeping through the wood of the door. _

_Cautiously, Rachel pushed it open, only to be assaulted by the loud and perplexing ragtime swing. She felt bewilderingly as though she were stepping into a New Orleans jazz bar. The music was so cheerful and upbeat that the trumpets, base, drums and vocals seemed to be clambering over each other in a race to get to the end of the song. She exchanged an uncertain look with the Latina, neither of them pausing to appreciate the cool blast of the air-con as they entered the apartment. _

_The sight that greeted them when they reached the sitting room froze them both in place with surprise. Rachel's eyebrows rose. The little boy, with his dark curls bouncing about his head, was jumping and stamping not quite in time with the music and his arms were flailing around his head. More surprising, however, was the woman opposite him who was doing almost exactly the same thing. Carlos' breathless giggles bubbled up above the music, his childish enthusiasm infectious._

_It took a moment for Quinn to notice them and when she did she pulled the little boy off balance and let them both crash down into the couch, a mess of laughing, flailing limbs. Without missing a heartbeat, Santana dropped her bag and ran to pounce on the pair, launching a tickle attack against her son._

'_Mami!'_

_Rachel grinned as she watched; a warmth far from the heat of the summer blossoming through her. Carlos' squeals were high pitched and playful as he tried to squirm and wiggle away from his mother. The intense bond between mother and son was palpable, and it made Rachel think that oneday, someday, she may have such a bond with a child of her own. _

_Eventually, Santana relented, falling back onto the couch with a breathless Carlos settled in between the two friends. He snuggled closely into his mother's side, and Rachel knew that no matter what Santana said, Carlos was the world to her. _

'_Tough day, baby?' Rachel asked, eyeing Quinn as she put down her bag on the coffee table. The blonde nodded slowly. _

'_I'm exhausted,' she admitted, and Rachel had to stifle the urge to laugh. With her blonde hair sitting messily about her face and her cheeks flushed from dancing, Rachel didn't think that Quinn could look possibly look cuter. It was as though the years had lifted off her and instead of the twenty-seven year old that she was used to a seventeen year old girl sat in front of her. _

'_I always thought that I'd have to worry about Berry's terrible taste in music,' the Latina snorted, turning a playful glare on the blonde. 'Not yours.'_

_Quinn shot her a glare, looking indignant._

'_This is classic jazz genius,' she replied pointedly. _

_Santana scoffed. _

'_It's New Orleans sh… sugar,' the Latina retorted. _

'_Sugar?' The blonde raised an eyebrow. _

_Santana rolled her eyes. 'You know what I mean…'_

'_Oh, I know,' Quinn smiled sweetly, leaning forward to speak directly to the little boy. Carlos looked at her expectantly, having been watching the exchange with curiosity. 'I think that it is time that we launch a tickle-attack on Mami… what do you think, little tiger?'_

'_Yes!' He crowed with excitement, launching himself at Santana with enthusiasm before she even had a chance to move away. Quinn laughed triumphantly before gamely moving to help out. _

_Rachel rolled her eyes as she watched them, trying to dampen the sudden longing in her chest._

_'Come help, Auntie Rach!' He called her, and knowing that she could never refuse him, Rachel moved forwards to join the foray. _

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

Santana rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the tension that tightened her muscles. She could feel his eyes on her from across the room, or at least, she thought that she could. Paranoia was tickling her senses; it had been ever since she had first set foot in this apartment two nights ago. Santana Lopez was not one to be frightened, and yet, he frightened her. His large, menacing presence with his predatory stillness and cold eyes… she felt as though Joseph Waters were always at her back.

'Kimberly wants me back at the office,' Phil sighed irritably as he hung up the phone, throwing his pen down onto the papers on the table. 'Why she can't just let me finish _one_ thing before telling me to do the next…'

'She's an unreasonable type A personality,' Santana replied. She had guessed that Kimberly had been summoning the associate back from overhearing the conversation, and just the thought of being left alone in the apartment with Joe Waters unnerved her.

'Do you mind finishing up here?' Phil asked as he gathered his papers together and slipped them into the briefcase.

Santana smiled hollowly.

'It's fine,' she lied smoothly.

As Phil slipped on his coat, she could feel the atmosphere in the room shift. The apartment was empty but for the furniture; the stylish, simple kind found in glossy magazines, all grey and chrome and black. Joseph didn't live here, she realised, he just existed. But strangely she found herself wondering whether he had ever really lived at all.

With the quiet steps of a hunter, he came back around the table to sit down once more in the black leather chair opposite her. Santana held her breath, refusing to look up for a moment, determined to gain control over her racing pulse.

'See you later,' Phil called as he left and Santana's eyes flicked up, only to meet the dark eyes that were watching her closely. It sent a shiver through her.

'We should continue going through your statements for the first victim,' she stated, her voice sounding brittle to her ears. 'I think that we got as far as…'

'Do you think that I did it?'

His sudden words cut her off.

Throughout their interviews he had been quiet but attentive, never really initiating conversation, only answering in his low tone. Santana glanced towards the door, towards where she knew the security guards were armed and waiting outside. She paused for a couple of heartbeats, trying to process what he had asked her.

'It doesn't matter what I think,' she replied evasively.

He didn't blink as he watched her.

'Yes, it does,' he said quietly. Then a small smile twisted his thin lips, as though he were taking some pleasure in her reaction. 'I have been waiting to ask you. I want to know.'

Santana placed down her pen, trying not to flinch under his stare.

'We have attorney-client privilege,' he stated.

'We do.'

'It covers crimes that have already been committed,' he said.

'It does,' Santana agreed quietly. Joseph leant forward, leaning his thick arms against the table.

'Then ask me,' he instructed, his dark gaze unwavering. 'I know that you want to know. I can see it in your eyes.'

She hesitated. This was why she was here; to get under his skin, to get close to him, close enough to second guess him and his actions. He wanted to play this game; she could see it in his eyes.

She glanced back down at the papers.

'We should get on with the statements…'

'Ask me,' he ordered.

His tone was hard and cold. Santana swallowed. The mere proximity of him unnerved her, his powerful presence and those thick, strong hands.

'Did you?' she finally asked, 'did you… do what you are accused of?'

The smile twitched at the corners of his lips. He waited; smirking at her.

'I enjoyed it,' he replied, watching her carefully.

Santana felt sickened, her stomach twisting. Although she had already known the truth, the way in which he said it nauseated her.

'You think that I'm inhuman,' he said softly, steepling his fingers together, 'but you are wrong… I am more human than you are.'

Santana's eyes focused on the papers in front of her, not on the man.

'I accept my nature,' he stated quietly, 'I embrace it.'

Santana could feel her hands starting to tremble as he spoke and clasped them together in her lap, struggling to stay sitting when all that she wanted to do was run out of the door and never turn back.

'Don't be frightened of me, Santana,' he whispered, leaning forward again and staring at her with his dark eyes, 'you have nothing to be afraid of... Because I know… _I know_… that you are on my side.'

* * *

><p>'So,' Brittany's voice startled Rachel from the lyrics that she was working on, 'you and Q, hmm?'<p>

Rachel looked across at the tall blonde who had come in quietly through the front door. She was struck by the way that Brittany seemed to glow in the morning light, at how she looked so elegant without trying to be. She had always had a dancer's physique; tall and slim and beautiful, and beside her Rachel had always felt so stumpy and small.

'I'm not surprised,' Brittany elaborated, leaning back against the kitchen counter as she watched the brunette, 'you should be together. You are meant to be. Like jelly and peanut butter… or gin and tonic… I just didn't expect you to forgive her so quickly.'

Rachel's brow furrowed as she thought about Brittany's words. The tall blonde was the most placid of the four of them, the most grounded. She didn't really have a temper, not in the same way as Quinn or Santana… and in many ways, she was cut from a different material entirely. Strong but malleable.

'I didn't forgive her,' Rachel stated eventually, turning the thought over and over in her mind even as she said it. She knew that it was true as she spoke the words, for there was too much associated with what Quinn had done, too much hurt that had seeped deep into her… into both of them. It was not something that could be overridden, or ever changed. 'I didn't forgive her, Brittany… I couldn't.'

At her soft statement, the blonde frowned, processing the words and Rachel sighed.

'I accepted it,' Rachel elaborated, wishing that she could find the words to explain, 'I accepted her decision… I accepted what she had done, to me and to herself.'

The blonde's eyes seemed sad as she listened, her long fingers playing with the cuff of her coat. Three days had passed since they had joined Quinn and Rachel at the cabin, and still Quinn seemed to be avoiding her. Although she played with Carlos, and laughed with Jasper, Quinn barely made eye contact with Brittany. It was as though the shorter blonde had blanked her existence from her mind, speaking to her politely but distantly, as though they were nothing but strangers.

'I came to a realisation,' Rachel said softly, 'that I couldn't change what had happened… and neither could she. That apologies and forgiveness cannot change the past. But what I can change is the future… the course of events from now on. I love her; I always will.'

The statement seemed to hang in the air and Brittany allowed herself a small smile. It arched over them, these simple statements of forever.

'Do you think that she will forgive me?'

She knew that if anyone could answer her then it was Rachel. For no one knew Quinn the way that the brunette did.

'I don't know, Brittany,' Rachel answered honestly. 'I really don't know.'

'She doesn't even see me,' Brittany murmured, studying the perfect oval of her nails, 'when she looks in my direction, it is like she is looking straight through me…'

'She's hurt,' Rachel offered.

Brittany looked up to meet her eyes, the blue bright with unshed tears.

'I'm hurt too,' the tall blonde replied shakily, 'she lied to us for so many years… she hid these things. So many things.'

Rachel sighed, placing down her pen on the papers and standing up. She could answer the blonde, she could make the arguments that Quinn had made to her; that she was protecting them, that she was scared, that she had not wanted to believe it herself… but it was not her place to argue that. Just as it wasn't her place to remind Brittany that the documentary had invaded and broken all trust between her and Quinn; that she had used her friend and been swept up in the creative process, in the potential success of the film. In a number of weeks, Quinn's life in Cambodia would be broadcast to the world, her most vulnerable and private moments weaved together. While Rachel could go to the tall blonde, she could hug her, comfort her and reassure her, she stepped aside instead.

The singer felt a wave of melancholy sweep over her unexpectedly and she wrapped her arms about herself. It was as though she were suddenly reminded of the people that they had been once, the children that they had been, with such hope and excitement ahead of them. It seemed a long time ago suddenly.

She stepped to the window, filling a glass with the water from the tap. The sudden burning of emotion was hurting her throat.

'Where is Carlos?' she asked softly, her back to the blonde as she changed the subject.

'He's playing,' Brittany sighed, and uncommonly, Rachel could hear the frustration in her voice. 'We had an argument…'

'An argument?'

'He misses his Mami,' Brittany replied, rubbing the bridge of her nose. 'He doesn't understand what is happening. It's unsettling him.'

Rachel gulped down more of the cold water. Did any of them really understand what was happening? Her eyes scanned the white landscape outside. The woods that sprung up across the hillside and the rolling snowdrifts that spread out across the valley encasing the frozen lake beyond. If she squinted her eyes a little, she could make out the pale blue of Quinn's jacket up amongst the trees; Jasper's tall frame beside her.

'Where is the little troublemaker now?' she asked absently.

Behind her, Brittany's eyes lingered on the small brunette's frame.

'With Jasper,' she answered softly, 'and Quinn.'

Rachel squinted up at the trees, trying to make out the small boy with the two adults. They seemed to be talking, their bodies close together, but she couldn't see the little red jacket of the seven year old, neither with them, nor up in the trees around them.

'No he's not…' Rachel frowned, carefully looking out at the white landscape.

'What?' Brittany appeared beside her.

'He's not with Quinn,' Rachel indicated the two adults up near the trees.

Brittany's body tensed as she scanned the landscape, a cold fear rushing through her. She didn't know where it came from, this strange sense of foreboding. She was not an overprotective mother; she didn't smother Carlos in rules and demands… yet, in this instant she felt her grip tighten on the counter.

'There,' Rachel's voice was tight and she pointed to the speck in the distance, 'down by the lake.'

Brittany frowned, the relief at spotting her little boy overshadowed by another cold rush of fear as she corrected the brunette. 'No… he's _on_ the lake.'

Rachel's heart plummeted in that instant. Before she had even turned around, Brittany was running towards the door. She didn't even bother to grab her coat as she followed, the tall blonde's longer legs striding away from her.

The cold air hit her like a physical force, the iciness of the snow seeping through her shoes.

'Carlos!' she shouted as soon as they were outside, her voice mixing with Brittany's in the clear, crisp air, '_Carlos!_'

* * *

><p>Jasper watched her as she picked up the rifle, her words like honey as they slipped from her tongue.<p>

'You need to hold it in a comfortable position,' she instructed, 'dominant hand on the grip; the other on the foregrip… and you place the stock firmly against your shoulder. Like this…'

Each movement seemed natural, and she tilted her head to look through the rear sight. A strand of blonde hair crossed her forehead, and for a brief moment Jasper wished that he had his camera in his hands to capture the moment.

'Your father taught you how to shoot?' he asked carefully.

Quinn stilled for a moment before relaxing her stance.

'Russell taught me to shoot,' she replied, letting the barrel of the rifle drop and turning to look at him. He stood broad and tall, his chiselled jaw cleanly shaven and his hands buried deep in his pockets.

'Did you ever suspect that he wasn't your father?'

The question almost threw her off balance, and Quinn sighed.

'Yes,' she replied honestly, 'and no… I always clashed with him. Ever since I was a child, I clashed with him, and there were things… just little things, little comments, or looks, or feelings that you pick up on as a child… He held my sister much more than he held me. Played with her more. Loved her more? I never consciously thought it… not until the moment that I saw Michael at the funeral. And then I just knew it… I knew it in a heartbeat.'

The light through the trees cast a mosaic across the snow; the dense stillness of the forest seemed heavy around them.

'It made it hard to let go,' she admitted softly, 'knowing that I had left him in that burning room. Knowing that he died there after I jumped… Knowing that I didn't really know him at all.'

Though she had never been one to crave contact, Jasper crossed the distance between them, touching her arm gently. She pulled it away from him.

'I don't want your pity, Jasp,' she said sharply.

He thought of the paper, of the obituary that they had found, of the last in a chain of the many people that she had lost.

'I'm not pitying you…' he started honestly, 'I just…'

His words were cut off as Rachel's high-pitched scream cut through the quiet.

'_Carlos!_'

Quinn's hand gripped his sleeve as they stumbled a few steps to look down at the cabin, at where Brittany and Rachel were running through the snow.

'What the…' Jasper started.

'By the lake,' Quinn interrupted, her eyes already on the little red jacket across the snow and ice. 'He's on the lake.'

And before Jasper knew what he was doing, he found himself running. They were closer to the frozen water than the women at the cabin, and with the incline of the hill he covered the ground quickly, the cold air burning in his lungs. Rachel had warned them of the thin ice when they had first arrived, of the small lake that her grandfather had tried to take her fishing on when she had visited them in the summertime.

He stumbled in the snow, steadying himself against the passing trees.

'Carlos!' his voice sounded so unlike his own as he shouted the boy's name.

It seemed as though the world were moving in slow motion as Carlos looked up. Jasper was close enough to see his face clearly, the wide dark eyes, the curls emerging from beneath his hat. Carlos' eyes met his as the ice gave way beneath him, and in an instant the small body and the red jacket and the dark eyes disappeared beneath the surface of the fragmented ice into the black waters below.

* * *

><p>Brittany's scream through the cold air was blood curdling.<p>

The boy had slipped so quickly beneath the surface that for a heartbeat or two, Quinn thought that he would not re-emerge. Her heart felt as though it was going to stop in her chest. Ahead of her, Jasper was crashing through the snow, his longer legs carrying him faster and faster.

'Jasper!'

She shouted at him as he approached the lake, realising with horror that he was not slowing down.

'Jasper, _stop!_'

The photographer had reached the edge of the ice, and dived onto it with all the momentum that he had. He slid across the surface on his front, reaching the dark hole that had swallowed the little boy only moments before. In a second, Carlos bobbed up on the surface, gasping from the cold shock of the water. Jasper's large hands grasped at him, tightening around the sodden jacket and pulling him up.

Quinn reached the edge of the ice, a spike of relief shooting through her just as the thunderous sound of cracking ice reached her ears. It splintered like china, giving way beneath the tall man who crashed down into the black water below.

_'Jasper!'_

She waited indecisively at the edge of the ice, her heart hammering against her ribcage until he broke the surface again, spluttering. Carlos was panicking, gasping for the cold air and struggling to keep his head above the surface.

'Carlos!' Quinn shouted at him, 'Carlos! Calm down. It's ok, just calm down! Stop splashing!'

But it was no use trying to talk to him for he didn't hear her, he didn't hear anything, flailing his arms to try to keep himself afloat whilst all his wet clothes were dragging him down. Jasper reached for him, grabbing the boy by his jacket and pulling him towards himself. Carlos clambered onto him desperately, pushing the tall man beneath the water.

Brittany reached Quinn's side, just as the smaller blonde had taken off her coat, throwing it out across the ice.

'Carlos!' she shouted sternly, hoping to cut through his panic, 'Grab the coat, Carlos. Grab onto the coat!'

His icy fingers tried to close around the material but failed. Once, twice. The third time, he managed to grip it, and Brittany's hands closed around Quinn's as they tried to pull him in across the ice. Once he was within reach, Brittany pulled him up and into her arms, mindless of the icy water as she encircled him tightly.

His skin was pale, his teeth chattering as his lips turned blue from the cold. His mother pressed a kiss against his cold skin, shaking from the panic.

'Get him inside,' Rachel ordered as Quinn threw out her wet jacket again to the man in the water. Rachel sank to her knees in the snow as they tried to drag Jasper across the ice. Even with all her strength, he barely seemed to move, sliding back on the ice every time he tried to pull himself out. Eventually they had succeeded in pulling him out far enough that he could scramble the remaining distance and collapse into the snow beside them.

Rachel closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath and slow her racing heart.

'Jesus Christ,' Quinn breathed, her icy fingers closing around Rachel's own. Beside them, Jasper tried to catch his breath, his whole body shaking violently. 'Jesus Christ...'

* * *

><p><strong>New York. Present.<strong>

'He's playing with me.'

Santana sank down in the armchair, resting her head in her hands and rubbing at her eyes. She knew that she had Roy's attention just from the way that he stilled, his grey eyes on her.

'Joseph Waters,' she said, trying to stop her hands from shaking, 'he's… he's playing with me.'

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

'He is cold… and heartless… soulless. He hunts…' she whispered, 'he gets a rush from it. From thinking about it... From planning it. He savours it. He has killed. He has killed so many people...'

Roy watched her carefully, releasing the breath that he was holding.

'I have told you all this and more,' he reminded her softly.

'It is one thing hearing it from you,' she stated, looking up to meet his eyes, 'it is entirely another hearing it from him.'

The lights in the sitting room were low, casting long shadows across his face. Santana stilled, watching him. She could almost make out the scar across his face, almost define the lines about his eyes.

'But you,' she said quietly, 'you have killed too.'

He did not smirk in the way that Joseph did, he did not seem to enjoy the way that her gaze fell on him. His eyes remained steady, watching her.

'I have,' he replied quietly.

The house felt too quiet, too empty suddenly. In the place of the laughter and chaos, the silence felt so lonely. Santana shivered. The stress of being with Waters, being in his apartment, listening to his quiet, steady voice… it was more than she had thought that it would be... worse than she had imagined. She could hear it in her head even now.

Her heart pummelled harder in her chest.

'Will you kill him?'

The silence that followed her question was thick, and Santana could barely believe that the words had left her lips. She had always been someone who believed in the system. She had to believe in the system; in justice and order and law. She had trusted in the system; decided to dedicate her life to it… She had trusted in it until Joseph Waters had been awarded bail. And that day, unseen and unheard, Santana's trust in the system had crumbled.

Roy raised a finger to stroke his upper lip thoughtfully. Calm and unhurried.

'Are you asking me to?'

His words were rough to her ears. It was the question that he had once asked Quinn, a year or more ago when he had pursued Dan Holbrook from Rachel's dressing room. Just before he had put a bullet through his skull. Quinn's reply had come eventually; a step closer to her biological father than she wished to be. _I want you to protect them_, she had said, _protect them from harm_.

'He's… inhuman,' Santana whispered.

His words rolled over and over in her head. Of the people that he had killed, of those that he had dismembered. Shooting, stabbing, strangulation… Anywhere and everywhere. Her stomach rolled. They would get him off… Stanton-Lee and the mafia together would untangle him from the law, and he would be free again, ready to kill again.

'He told me that he… he never misses a mark. Once he has made up his mind to kill, then that individual is as good as dead… Quinn is as good as dead.'

While part of him was surprised that the lawyer had brought it up, another part of him had been expecting this conversation. Love was such an interesting bond, such a powerful one that all else seemed to yield to it.

He exhaled slowly.

'It is impossible to kill him,' Roy replied steadily, 'electronically tagged within his apartment, two armed guards at all times… One door in, one door out. It is impossible, in the current situation, to kill him.'

In the dim lighting, he watched not her face, but her hands. They gave so much away, he felt. Instead of trembling, as they had before, Santana's hands seemed to have steadied on her lap. She was no longer shaking.

'What if I can get him alone… out… away from the apartment…'

He narrowed his eyes.

'That sounds… dangerous.'

Santana didn't reply, just kept watching him steadily with those large dark eyes.

'Do you want me to kill him?' he asked her again, his grey eyes intent.

Santana took a deep breath in, struggling with herself. The feeling was burning inside her chest, it was burning in the way her lungs burnt when she ran as long and as hard as she could.

'I want to protect them,' she whispered, 'the people I love.'

* * *

><p>Quinn leant back against the kitchen counter as Rachel ranted, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. Evening time had come quickly and after the excitement of the day, she felt exhausted. Maybe in another context, the situation would have been funny… but unfortunately Quinn could find no humour in it now.<p>

'What were you thinking? _Hmm?_ I told you _twice_ that the lake was out of bounds, young man,' Rachel's voice was hard, her hands on her hips as she stood before the boy and the man who had situated themselves beside each other in front of the fire. Carlos looked so young in his pyjamas, his curls wild around his head as he gazed up at her with his large brown eyes. Beside him, Jasper simply looked weary. 'And I know that your Momma did as well…'

Quinn felt her eyes drift to the Momma in question and couldn't help but feel the concern that fluttered within her chest. Brittany looked shattered, curled up in the armchair and holding her knees to her chest. It was the shock, Quinn suspected. The fear of losing her son that had her trembling still.

'I didn't think that it would crack,' Carlos murmured, pouting his lower lip.

'That is not the point,' Rachel stated firmly, her dark eyes flashing. 'In future, you will listen to the adults when they give you an instruction, Carlos, and you will _obey_. Do you understand me?'

Quinn turned back to the hot milk on the stove, stirring it carefully before pouring it out into the waiting mugs. She could hear Carlos mumble his acquiescence.

'And _you_,' Rachel turned her furious gaze onto the photographer, jabbing a finger towards him, 'what the _hell_ were _you_ thinking? Everybody knows that you don't go out onto the ice when it has just cracked!'

Carlos snuggled into the man's side protectively.

'Don't shout at Jasper,' he objected with a pout.

Quinn felt the corners of her lips twitch at the surprise on Jasp's face from the boy's sudden affection as she took the tray of cocoa over to the fire.

'Auntie Rach is only shouting because she cares,' she interjected, passing the little boy a mug of cocoa, 'be careful; it's hot.'

Rachel snorted indignantly, folding her arms across her chest.

_'Auntie Rach_ is shouting,' she interrupted, 'because you were both _incredibly_ stupid…'

Quinn passed a mug to Jasper, and then, carefully, to Brittany, before turning to the furious brunette.

'Rachel,' she said softly. She stepped carefully towards the shorter woman. 'Everyone's okay…'

The dark eyes flashed dangerously.

'How can you be so calm about this?' the brunette hissed, 'they both could have…' she cut herself off, not wanting to say the word. 'How can you be so calm?'

Quinn carefully encircled her in her arms, pressing a kiss against her cheek.

'Because they are okay,' she replied softly, 'they are both okay.'

* * *

><p>Quinn rummaged through the cupboard until she found the prescription pills that she had spotted a few days before. Shutting the cupboard with finality she slipped back out of the bathroom. In the sitting room, the warmth of the fire flickered as Carlos nestled between Jasper and Rachel, watching with sleepy eyes as the two played cards, his small fist entangled in the older man's t-shirt.<p>

The doctor crouched down beside Brittany, whose eyes were still focused on the fire, her breathing unsteady.

'B,' she whispered softly, resting her hand against the taller blonde's arm. 'B?'

Brittany looked up at her, her blue eyes wide, and Quinn felt her chest tighten.

'You should go to bed,' she instructed quietly, 'you look exhausted… and after today… after today, you need some rest.'

Brittany just glanced back at the fire, her shoulders slumping.

'I can't believe… I just… I know…'

'It's okay,' Quinn interrupted her gently, 'Carlos is okay. He's safe.'

She helped the taller blonde from the chair, guiding her through to the bedroom, aware of the brown eyes on her back as Rachel watched her go.

'I found something to help you sleep,' Quinn offered quietly, taking one of the small white pills from the pot of medicine, 'it's an anxiolytic… it will help you relax.'

Brittany was trembling as Quinn gave her the glass of water.

'I need San,' she murmured, 'I need her. I need her, Quinn.'

Again that same feeling tightened in Quinn's chest and she took an unsteady breath, thinking of the Latina. Slowly she leant forwards, pressing her lips against the blonde's forehead. There was more in the gesture than in a thousand words that could pass between them.

'Try to get some sleep,' she instructed quietly, turning to leave the room.

As she reached the door, Brittany called out to her.

'Quinn…'

The shorter blonde froze, her hazel eyes focused on the grain of the wood, tracing the lines up along the door. That same feeling tightened again in her chest.

'I'm not ready to talk about it yet,' she answered softly, knowing what the other woman wanted to say. 'I'm not ready, B...'

Without another word, she slipped out of the room, back to the three who were curled up together on the couch.

She settled onto the cushions, leaning her head down against Rachel's shoulder and staring into the fire. Michael was dead. She knew that now; Jasper had shown her the paper with his obituary. She could feel that the time was drawing near for her to make her decision, that she would have to act soon, and if she did things right… if she played it well, then, maybe, _just maybe_, everything could work out okay.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading - please review.<p> 


	28. Bittersweet love

Thank you to everyone who is still reading this - I know that it has been a long journey but we are definitely tumbling towards the end of this story, so thank you for sticking with it. Reviews and comments are always appreciated.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 28 – Bittersweet love<span>

**Present. In the cabin.**

'Hey,' she whispered into the darkness, cupping the old phone close to her ear, 'I've been thinking about it… I've been thinking about it a lot.'

She listened carefully to the voice at the other end of the line, shifting her weight from one foot to the other on the cold wooden floor. Her fingers brushed against the curtains, parting them just enough to see out to the deep violet of the night sky. The expanse of it above sent tremors through her. It was hard to quantify the helplessness that had gripped her for the preceding days, or the ever expanding _need_ to act. As much as she was not one for recklessness, she could feel the pressure of time closing in on them, she could feel herself fraying at the edges.

'I have a plan,' she stated quietly, glancing back towards the bedrooms where the others were asleep. 'It's not foolproof but… it's a plan... I think that we both know what needs to be done.'

The Latina's predictable response at the other end of the line made her roll her eyes. After so many years of knowing each other, she felt that she could predict the woman's reaction to almost anything.

'Well you are just going to have to trust me on this, Santana,' she stated firmly, catching the ghostly outline of her own reflection on the glass. She let the curtain drift back across it. 'I've made up my mind. I want you to send those photographs to the address I gave you...'

Pausing for a moment, she felt another shiver run through her.

'Yes… I'm sure,' she whispered, 'I'll see you in a couple of days…Be careful.'

* * *

><p><strong>Summer. 2011. Lima.<strong>

_Quinn's lips tasted so sweet; sweet like vanilla. _

_Rachel smiled against them, pulling her girlfriend down and close. She could not get enough of this girl, every touch hot against her skin; the firmness of her taut body pressing down against her own. It electrified her; burnt her delicate skin as though Quinn's fingerprints were branding themselves onto her._

_Eventually, the blonde pulled away, reaching for the homemade lemonade on the coffee table. She smirked as Rachel licked her lips; the ice clinking against the glass. _

'_You want it?' Quinn asked with a playful smile. _

_The thin layer of sweat that had sprung up against Quinn's skin in response to the heatwave outside would have been unpleasant had it not been for the heat of the girl beneath her. There was something addictive about Rachel Berry, something addictive about how her lips parted, at how her dark eyes managed to darken into endless melted pools. _

'_I want it,' Rachel stated lowly, happy to play the game. _

_Quinn's lips twitched._

_It had taken her some time to realise that there was one thing better than listening to Rachel sing… for when the brunette moaned her name Quinn could feel the vibration of it in every part of her body. More than anything else, she wanted to hear it. She wanted to hear it every day; every hour; every minute. As terrifying as that realisation was, it was also somehow liberating._

'_Hmmm,' Quinn murmured, her tongue darting out to touch on the condensation of the glass, 'so… what's the magic word, Berry?'_

_As she took a sip of the sweet, cold liquid she felt Rachel's hands move up to cup her ass in a move that both surprised and elated her with the possessiveness of it. It had always been push and pull between them; clashing and conflicting. Yet Quinn was starting to wonder whether her absolute delight in Rachel was because the girl was her perfect counterpart, equal and opposite, the girl that abounded with all the qualities that she lacked, that challenged everything and saw everything. Quinn knew that she was becoming hopelessly entangled, and as much as it terrified her, as much as she would not yet admit it, to herself and especially not to Rachel, she was addicted to this feeling. To this overwhelming infatuation. _

'_Stop being a bitch and give me some,' the words were as uncharacteristic as the low tone in which she spoke and Quinn couldn't help the grin that crossed her features. _

'_As you asked so nicely…'_

_Quinn lowered herself forwards to capture the singer's lips, her own tingling as her long blonde hair cascaded down over the other girl's shoulders. The cool sweetness of the lemonade was fresh on her lips. Rachel's eyes closed gently, arching up in response to her. _

'_Lucy.'_

_The cold tone was like ice water crashing over them and Rachel practically froze in place. For the last four days the two of them had been camping out in the Fabray house; as Quinn's parents were, yet again, away._

_Quinn shot abruptly upright, turning with a shocked expression to the figure who stood like a statue in the doorway. _

_There was only one person in the world who still called the cheerleader by her given name, and that person was the one person in Quinn's life that Rachel had wished to impress. The one person whose approval Quinn still craved, more than almost everything. The blonde's face drained of all colour, as Rachel's flushed with mortification. _

'_Mom…' Quinn's voice was tight and uncertain, 'I… thought you were in Chicago.'_

_The silence that followed her faltering statement was fragile and Rachel found herself holding her breath, almost afraid to release it. Quinn was still straddling her waist and Rachel wished that she would just get off her, but the blonde seemed frozen in shock._

'_Stand up,' Judy Fabray's silky voice was quiet and above her Rachel could see her girlfriend stiffen at the words. She didn't move, her warm fingers closing subconsciously around Rachel's. The brunette closed her eyes, glad for the reassurance of the connection between them. _

'_I said stand up!'_

_Quinn flinched at the harsh tone and Rachel sucked in a shallow breath through her teeth. It snapped Quinn from her stupor and she pulled herself off Rachel, straightening her cheerleading uniform as she took a hesitant step away from the couch. _

'_I know…' she started; her honeyed tones low and pacifying, 'I know that this is a shock, mom…'_

_Rachel took a steadying breath before pushing herself up, turning her eyes nervously towards the glacial blonde standing in the doorway. Though she had seen pictures of her and even seen her from the distance on occasion, there was something arresting about Judy Fabray's presence that was not captured in the photographs of her. _

'…_but I have wanted to tell you,' Quinn was continuing hesitantly, 'I have wanted to tell you for the longest time…' _

_Rachel smoothed her skirt as Judy Fabray's gaze shifted slowly to her and even across the distance she could see the icy blue of her eyes and shivered. As beautiful as she was, there was something so cold about her, so detached that she seemed almost… inhuman, the shell of a person made of ice. Rachel knew, even before Quinn did, that the cheerleader's words would not penetrate beneath that pale skin. _

'_Get out.'_

_The order was quiet and direct. _

_Rachel felt her heart speed within her chest, uncertain whether she should get up and leave or wait. _

'_Mother…' Quinn objected, her hand shooting out to gesture for Rachel to stay. _

'_Get out of my house.'_

_And this time Rachel stood before she had even had time to process what the woman was saying. _

'_She's my girlfriend, mom…' _

_Until this moment, Quinn's mother had been standing frighteningly still, but now… now she turned her glare fiercely on her daughter, taking a deliberate step across the marble floor, her sharp heals clicking loudly against it. _

'_I don't give a shit who she is, Luce,' the woman hissed, 'I want her out of this house. And I never, ever want to set eyes on her again. Is that clear?' _

_Quinn looked almost as though she had been slapped, her expression a mixture of both shock and betrayal. Her lips parted but she made no attempt to speak, the words were stuck in her throat. Her mother's gaze was hard; her eyes filled with something that Quinn couldn't quite define… something that made her drop her gaze to the floor._

'_Is that clear?' The woman repeated sternly when no answer was forthcoming from her daughter._

_Rachel folded her arms defensively across her chest, feeling suddenly small and vulnerable… and inexplicably ashamed. She could feel herself shrinking inwards, as though beneath the blue eyes she had started to wilt and now could not recover._

'_I'll go,' she murmured, wanting nothing more than to be out of the room and away from the cold house. She had taken only a couple of steps across the marble floor before Quinn found her tongue once again. _

'_No,' she objected, 'Rachel, stop.'_

_Rachel looked between the two women uncertainly. Judy Fabray's expression was glacial and Quinn's looked so heartbreakingly vulnerable that it made her want to pull the younger blonde into her arms. _

'_Lucy…' the low tone of warning was enough to make Rachel start to back away once more. _

'_Mom,' Quinn tried again, 'please… be reasonable.'_

'_Reasonable?' her mother echoed dangerously, 'reasonable, Lucy? I come back to my house to find my seventeen year old daughter groping another girl on my couch like some pornstar slut…'_

_Quinn started to tremble, her mother's eyes watching her dispassionately. Her mother didn't swear, her mother never swore and the force of the words brought tears to her eyes. _

'_And you have the nerve to tell me to be reasonable?' her mother's voice was low and dangerous, 'you are testing my tolerance to breaking point, Lucy. After everything that happened last year…' the older blonde narrowed her eyes, watching her closely. Quinn's pregnancy and the repercussions of it had caused deep wounds to all of the relationships within the Fabray household; wounds that were toxic and slow to heal. 'God, I swear… if she were a boy, she would be lucky to leave this house with her limbs…'_

_Judy Fabray turned her steely gaze back to Rachel, her deadly calm façade not wavering. _

'_This is your last warning to get out of my house…' she stated quietly, 'you will not see my daughter again.'_

_Silently, Rachel backed away, fumbling with the door handle to let herself out of the house as quickly as she could. The door clicked shut firmly behind her and the sound of it seemed to echo around the room in the heavy silence that followed her departure. _

_Quinn didn't dare to look up, her eyes trained on the floor beneath her feet; she could feel her mother's presence close to her, charged and electric. A whirlwind of emotion twisted within her, waxing and waning as she breathed, and for a split second, though it had never happened before, Quinn felt as though her mother was going to slap her across her face. _

_She tensed, waiting for it, but the moment passed._

'_I'm so disappointed in you,' her mother's words were merely a whisper before she turned away, striding on stiletto heels back across the room. Though not physical, they struck the target surely and violently enough._

_Quinn blinked against the tears in her eyes. _

'_This is who I am,' she whispered. _

_Her mother paused on the marble, stopping a couple of metres from her. Though her voice had been quiet, Quinn knew that she had heard her words. _

'_Excuse me?'_

_The girl looked up, taking a deep breath as she did so. She swallowed against the lump in her throat, her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears. _

'_This… is who I am,' she repeated, more firmly, as Judy tilted her head, not quite understanding the words or the quiet defiance of the tone. _

'_You're not upset because I was kissing…' she continued quietly, 'you are upset because I was kissing a girl… I know that as well as you do.'_

_The stillness of the warm air seemed to hang, waiting, as they looked at each other. There was nothing in her mother's expression that shifted, but just from the intensity of her blue gaze, Quinn knew that she was right. She could almost feel something crack within her, that painful, aching feeling that settled beneath the arch of her ribs. All her life, Quinn had sought the warmth of her mother's approval; the subtle nod of praise and the hint of a smile, for the bond between them had always been so powerful, and yet somehow, so fragile._

'_I'm upset because you are being reckless and stupid, Lucy,' her mother replied with measured words. 'Reputation is everything in this world… and you have tarnished yours almost irreparably already.'_

'_I love her,' Quinn stated softly, the words feeling right on her tongue even though she had never uttered them before. _

_Her mother laughed dryly. _

'_Don't confuse this matter with sentimental nonsense…' she replied coolly._

_The frown that deepened between Quinn's eyebrows did not fade, her hands clasping at each other desperately, the knuckles almost turning white. _

'_I do love her,' she repeated quietly. _

'_You don't know what love is, Quinn,' her mother stated more seriously, her expression closing in as she used her daughter's middle name rather than her given one, 'you are only seventeen… you know hormones, and lust… teen TV dramas and the shells of hollow words. Everything is sunshine and sweetness in your little world… and maybe that is my fault, for protecting you from the grittiness of reality.'_

_Quinn swallowed, folding her arms across her body. As unfair as she felt her mother's words were, she knew that no argument that she made would be heard. The woman stilled; her voice quiet. _

'_The world is a darker place than that…' she stated, 'and so are the emotions that you speak so freely of... Love is blacker, and bloodier, than you can understand.'_

_Despite the thick heat of the air Quinn felt a coolness shudder up across her skin. Her mother's eyes, which had drifted to the light of the world outside, slowly returned and settled on her daughter. _

'_When you have found someone that you would lie for,' she said quietly, 'someone that you would die for… Someone, for whom, you would be willing to sacrifice everything… then, and only then, can you talk to me about love, Quinn.'_

_The anger that had blazed in her eyes before had faded and now it was something else that burned there instead, something that Quinn couldn't read._

'_Is that how you feel about Dad?' Quinn asked quietly. _

_The jarring relationship between her parents was something that she felt that she would never understand. They fit together and yet they did not… and somehow, as the years had gone on, the sharp edges between the two had calloused and bled. Ever increasing business trips kept them apart, and silences that had once been companionable seemed, to Quinn, always on the edge of hostility. Her mother drank, her father left. They were both strong personalities that were gouging chunks from each other beneath the perfect social facade. _

'_It's how I feel about you,' her mother replied softly. 'You and your sister.'_

_Quinn felt the tension melt from her shoulders, uncertain as to how to process the encounter. _

'_If you love me like that,' she said finally, taking a shuddering breath, 'then can't you accept me for who I am?' she looked up at her mother. 'Can't you accept that I may… want to be with her?'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present. In the cabin.<strong>

The blonde looked deep in thought when Rachel emerged from the bedroom, her hair wet from the shower. She paused in the doorway to look at her for a moment. Every second had seemed so valuable lately, each of these moments that stirred that intense warmth beneath her breastbone. Rachel knew, more than Quinn realised, how transient these peaceful moments were and like precious jewels, she tried to gather them up, carefully hold them within herself to be treasured for the years to come.

She crossed the distance to the couch, leant over it to kiss the soft skin atop the woman's cheekbone. Quinn looked up at her through the hatch of silky blonde hair that had fallen into her eyes, a soft smile coming to her lips.

'You look so serious,' Rachel murmured, stepping around the couch to settle beside the blonde.

Quinn started to move towards her and then hesitated for a heartbeat, an uncertain look in her eyes. Rachel reached out to tangle their fingers together, and at the reassurance of the touch, Quinn seemed to melt into her, allowing herself to be held against the smaller woman's body.

Rachel nuzzled into the blonde hair, inhaling the vanilla of the woman's shampoo. The vulnerability was unusual in Quinn, or at least the silent acknowledgement of it was as she let Rachel wrap her arms around her.

'I was thinking about my family,' Quinn murmured, her throat tight around the words, 'of Russell, and Michael… of my mother...'

Rachel's grip tightened but a wry smile crossed Quinn's face.

'You realise that between us, we have four fathers?'

Rachel snorted softly.

'And two mothers,' the brunette commented lightly.

'Enough for a volleyball team.'

She could feel Quinn's muscles start to relax, their bodies melting together. The blonde exhaled gently.

'I forgot what it was like to lie in your arms,' she whispered.

She had been thinking of her mother; of love that was blacker and bloodier than her young mind could comprehend. Judy Fabray's words had stayed with her for so many years, held close and crumpled against her. But as Quinn lay in Rachel's arms she still found herself at odds with her mother's dark declaration. To her, the feeling was still as though she were lying on the grass on a summer's day; the warmth of the rays on her skin, as her body seemed to sing with the happiness that came from being with Rachel. It had always been this way.

Rachel bit down the words that came to her lips. Of corny words that did no justice to how she felt, of how she felt complete with Quinn beside her, of how everything settled and found its' place. She knew that the time was slipping away from them, the world turning beneath their feet. But it simply made her more determined to complete what, in her mind, she had already started.

'What is it like to lie in my arms?' she asked playfully instead.

Hazel eyes flicked up to hers, glittering.

'Beautiful.'

* * *

><p>The night was quiet as Rachel pushed herself up in the bed, the slit of moonlight through the crack in the curtain falling across the blonde's face. She looked so young and relaxed in her sleep that Rachel was suddenly caught in the memory of her, of the children that they had been once, long ago; of the women that they had become; and everything, <em>everything<em>, in between.

She gently brushed the blonde hair from the woman's face, her touch lingering on the thin line of the scar on her forehead.

'I love you,' she whispered, before leaning down to press her lips against the woman's skin. 'Please…' she exhaled slowly, trying to still the fine tremor of her hands, 'please understand. Understand that I love you.'

Quinn would not wake. Not now. Not with the anxiolytics that Rachel had slipped her so easily. The brunette knew that she had to move before she lost her nerve to leave; for the wheels were already in motion, and there was no way to stop them now.

Slipping from the bed, the beam of moonlight caught her as she reached for the clothes that she had neatly folded on the chair. She paused in the light, biting down hard on her lip and tasting the coppery blood on her tongue. Looking out at the pale disc, she sent a silent prayer up to the sky, for herself, for Quinn… for all of them.

* * *

><p>'I'm coming with you.'<p>

His voice was soft in the darkness and Rachel squeaked as she jumped in surprise, her hand going to her mouth as she swore softly.

'Jasper!' she hissed, trying to calm the racing of her heart that she felt was trying to crack her ribs. The pounding of blood through her arteries was loud in her ears, the adrenaline thick.

He was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, his outline visible in the shadows.

'I'm coming with you, Rachel,' he repeated quietly.

'That's not part of the plan…' she objected, stepping carefully towards him.

'I know,' he acknowledged, pausing for a moment as he watched her. Rachel squared her shoulders, trying to strengthen against the uncertainty that she had felt only moments before. 'But I'm coming with you.'

In the stillness of the cabin, Rachel considered him for a moment, her grip tightening on the bag over her shoulder. They had never been friends and yet, over the last few weeks, Jasper had exceeded everything that Rachel had ever expected of him. It was love for the woman that lay asleep in the bedroom behind her that had kept them on opposite sides of the game; it was love, and jealousy, and possessiveness. In the darkness of the night Rachel could admit that and, against the counter, it seemed that so could Jasper.

'I have made up my mind,' he continued gently, 'this is not a negotiation…'

Rachel pursed her lips, irritation mixing with the storm of other emotions that she had been experiencing.

'I need you to stay here…'

'To babysit Quinn?' He interrupted, the volume of his voice rising slightly.

'To stop her doing something stupid,' Rachel responded quietly. She sighed again, shaking her head although she knew that he could barely see her. 'I know her, Jasper… I _know_ her...'

'So do I,' he murmured darkly.

'Then you know how close she is to making a choice that will…' Rachel cut herself off from the words that sprung, unwelcome, to her lips… _that will kill her_. That is what she had wanted to say, the horrible words that felt like a curse; a prophecy. From the moment that they had left New York, Rachel had watched Quinn like a hawk. The blonde brooding as she turned over the options in her mind, calculated and re-calculated… Rachel wasn't sure if it was because of all that she had lost in her life that made Quinn hold on so much tighter to those that she loved, or whether it was the burden of guilt that made the responsibility for all their lives weigh so heavily on her, but to Rachel she was as transparent as the glass in the window. Each day was taking them hurtling towards the day that Quinn would leave. To the day that Quinn would make the decision that Rachel knew would take her out of her life forever… and that was something that she could not allow. Not again.

'…that will kill her.'

Jasper spoke the hollow words that she could not.

Rachel inhaled sharply through her nose, her body tensing.

If she had ever needed proof then he had proved it to her in that statement. That, yes, he knew Quinn well; that he could read the stoic blonde as closely as she could. He could see it too. How her silences where growing longer, her thoughts ever more distant from them. The incident on the ice had only served to accelerate things, for nothing is as potent as almost loosing someone that you love.

'I'm not going to let her martyr herself,' Rachel stated lowly. The protectiveness that had burnt so fiercely beneath her breastbone in the preceding days was only gathering fuel as time passed. 'Not when I can do something about it…'

He contemplated her in the low lighting, wondering at the years that they had known and despised each other, at how much time and effort he had wasted in hating her.

'You realise,' he murmured, 'that you are doing to her what she did to you, Rachel?'

Rachel narrowed her eyes, her grip tensing as her belly tightened. She did not respond and he continued softly.

'Deceiving her to protect her?' he probed, 'keeping her in the dark? _Leaving?_'

Rachel swallowed.

Certainly the argument, on the other side of the coin, was fierce. She had no doubt that Quinn would be as furious when she awoke as Rachel had been when she realised what the blonde had done to protect her in those earlier years. She knew that it would damage them; that it would damage the relationship between them… and yet, somehow, although she could tell her and involve her in the decision, and the choices she was making, Rachel's desire to protect the blonde was too great to risk. Strangely, now, in the darkness, she felt the forgiveness that she had struggled to find before flutter through her… for she suddenly understood. She understood how Quinn could have taken it all upon herself, how she could have lied, how she could have cut herself off and crossed the globe to keep them safe… for in a heartbeat, Rachel knew that she would do the same.

'I'm not saying you are wrong…' Jasper pushed himself off the counter, stepping towards her until he could make out the dark pools of her eyes.

She stared at him, unblinking.

'I'm not wrong,' she whispered certainly.

They looked at each other for a long moment, the quiet of the night about them. He leant down to pick up his bag, carefully hoisting it over his shoulder. The lines of his face were as serious as she had ever seen them and Rachel felt as though she were looking at him for the first time, that the façade had melted away and she could finally see through to the man beneath.

'I know,' he stated quietly.

It was with a dark and foreboding feeling that Rachel lifted her chin, nodding slowly. Her heart had tripped into a steady rhythm, the type that is stirred by military bands and minor tones, awaiting the cadence at the end of the phrase. Through the simplest of actions, Rachel realised that she was making a decision that had the power to spin either way, that as she nodded to him, and they walked towards to door, she was in turn, walking away from the woman that she had always loved. And deep down, close to her soul, she knew that there was the very real possibility that she may never see her again.

* * *

><p>Carlos crept into the room, his barefeet quiet on the floor. He was careful not to make a sound, stopping uncertainly beside the bed. His Momma's hand rested gently on his shoulder. While she had been reluctant to let him enter the room, after much protesting, she had finally relented.<p>

The sky was cloudless beyond the glass, the sunshine streaming through the crack in the curtains and glowing behind them. His dark eyes settled on the blonde woman lying on the bed before him; Auntie Q's breathing was slow and steady, the soft rise and fall of her chest gentle beneath the sheets.

He watched her for a moment, tilting his head to the side.

'See,' his momma leant down to whisper in his ear, her hands reassuring on his small shoulders, 'she's fine, baby.'

It had been a shock to awake in the morning and find Auntie Rach and Jasper gone… such a shock that part of him felt upset and angry at being forgotten, at being left behind. But even stranger was that his Auntie Q slept peacefully on, as though the hours that passed did not touch her.

Carlos frowned, studying his aunt carefully. Her skin still glowed, her hair messy about her face on the pillow. She didn't stir.

'Auntie Q never sleeps this long,' he whispered back, not quite ready to accept what his mother had been telling him about her wellbeing. His dark eyes shifted up to her, eyes that reminded her, as they always did, of Santana. Brittany stroked a gentle hand along his spine, in the way that she had done to comfort him since he was a baby.

'She's tired, sweetheart,' she responded softly.

He looked to the blonde woman asleep on the bed, to the rise and fall that reassured him that she was, indeed, alive.

'She's very tired,' his mother responded hesitantly, something added to her tone that he could not place. If anything, it made him even more uncertain. 'She's very tired, baby, and will sleep for a long time.'

Carlos looked up at her for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. Before she could stop him he had crept across the distance to the bed, hovering above his sleeping aunt before quickly pressing a quick kiss against her skin. He looked down expectantly, waiting for a moment for something to happen.

It did not.

Quinn slept on, and Carlos waited impatiently until, with a heavy exhalation of air, he scowled.

'Doesn't work,' he grumbled before turning abruptly and stalking from the room, his mother's confused gaze following him.

* * *

><p>As sharp as a lance that ran down her spine, Quinn woke suddenly from her sleep, the echoes of Santana's screams ringing loudly in her ears. The context of the dream disappeared like smoke vanishing up into the sky, and yet the thumping of her heart within her chest was fast enough and strong enough to remind her of the horror of it. The terror that gripped her was both powerful and purposeless, and she reached out blindly for Rachel's body, for the reassurance that she always found there.<p>

But the bed beside her was empty, the sheets cold.

She knew, instantly, that there was something wrong; a feeling that only intensified when she blinked open her eyes to the bright rays of the sunshine against the wall. Her head felt thick and groggy, as though she had been wading through water and it was slowing her down; the heaviness of her eyelids almost overwhelming as she sank back down into the soft pillows.

'Rach?'

It felt wrong. The strange heaviness of her head and of her limbs, like lead…

'Rachel?'

It was the creeping sense of foreboding that kept her fighting against the exhaustion that threatened to tumble her back into sleep; that sixth sense that was screaming at her.

She rolled over, pushing herself up until she was sitting, groggily, on the edge of the bed. Rubbing at her eyes, she looked up at the window, at the sunshine outside… and with the finality of knowing, she realised that she had slept the whole day through… and as strangely, and certainly, she knew that Rachel was gone.

Just as the dream had made her heart race so did the fear that cascaded over her. The sharpness of it snapped her from her drowsy state. It didn't take her long to see the note, penned in the brunette's gentle sloping handwriting on a page torn from her notebook… Quinn recognised it instantly and as she reached for it, her hand seemed to tremble before her.

'You didn't,' she whispered, almost afraid to touch the paper… hoping that it were just a scrap piece that the singer had not thrown away. 'Please… please tell me you didn't…'

But as she scanned the words she could feel the tightening of emotion in her chest, the fear and anger that boiled up within her. She crumpled the paper in her palm, crushing it within her fist until the knuckles blanched white.

Quinn felt choked with emotion. It was as though the noose was tightening around her neck, the noose that had been slipped onto her so many years ago.

She threw the paper across the room with all the force that she could muster, trying to resist the desire to smash something, if only just her fist. She stood abruptly, slapping the palms of her hands against the plaster of the wall, once, twice… a third time, and she closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly shut as she tried to control her breathing.

She pressed her forehead against the cold plaster.

'Rachel…' she groaned the word through gritted teeth, for as surely as she knew that the brunette had made up her mind to confront the situation, Quinn also knew that the only way to truly resolve it would end, ultimately, with death. Each and every way that she had approached it had ended up the same; no matter what she did, no matter how she did it, she could not imagine a way of protecting her family without approaching Joe Waters and somehow having him killed.

She smacked her hands hard against the plaster again, the stinging of it tingling down her arms.

But instead of the anger that had flashed and burnt brightly through her, it was as though a soothing hand rested gently upon her shoulder. She blinked back the tears of frustration that had stung at her eyes, and took a ragged breath. Strangely and powerfully, she could feel her mother's presence at her back, the cool fingertips against the nape of her neck; that gentle caress that had always soothed her as a child.

_You are alone now_. It seemed to say. _You are alone, in this world_.

Anger seeped from her body; it dissipated in a way that Quinn had never been able to achieve before and with a strange singularity of purpose she felt a strength that was not her own start to soak into her.

_I'm right behind you, sweetheart_.

Russell's last words had turned over in her mind so many times after the fire; and deep down she knew that he had never intended to follow her. He had died so many years ago now… so many years had passed, and still she was trying to piece it together.

As she closed her eyes, she could see the view from the window of the house as she had stepped out onto the ledge; the cool of the night beyond, the heat of the flames behind her as it burnt. As it burnt to the ground. The beginning of this nightmare.

_I couldn't see it then; how everything comes to an end…_

Her breathing steadied.

_How everything burns and crumbles…_

She wrapped her arms about herself, twisting to the side, against the wall...

_No matter how high, nor how strong… _

Until finally her back was against the plaster, the sunlight through the glass catching her in its beam. The warmth of it soothed her and Quinn rested her head back, not wanting to open her eyes to the world.

_When you have found someone that you would lie for…_

Her mother's presence was close. As enigmatic and strong as she had always been. For so many years Quinn had wished that she could speak with her mother one last time. That she could be, just once more, be a child, her child. That she could ask and understand the choices that Judy had made, the aftershocks of which still rippled through Quinn's life.

_Someone that you would die for… _

She clasped her hands together, the small golden cross squeezed tightly between thumb and forefinger.

_For whom, you would be willing to sacrifice everything… _

When she opened her eyes, the glare of the light felt as though it were blinding her, stark and white and disorientating.

She knew what it was that she needed to do. The cold certainty of it ran through her. She knew it as surely as she knew her own skin.

_Then, and only then, Quinn._

_Then, and only then..._

* * *

><p><strong>Present. On the road back to New York.<strong>

Jasper leant against the side of the payphone, watching Rachel as she spoke animatedly to the woman on the other end. Her movements seemed to be gathering energy the more that she talked and he had to stop himself from smirking at her.

'Yes… yes, I saw the magazines…' she rolled her eyes at him, clearly irritated by her publicist, 'yes. I know. Fiona. _Fiona_ – I know… just tell them that I have no comment at this time…'

He folded his arms across his chest, squinting his eyes up to the sky. In a few hours they would be back in New York. Only a few hours.

'_Fiona_ – I know!' Rachel's frustration was not well-hidden as she snapped again, 'just ignore it – okay?'

He had to admit that being Rachel's publicist must be something of an experience; the woman was a headstrong personality that did not take direction very well when it came to her life.

'I want you to confirm the awards ceremony…'

It was understandable that Fiona was upset; Rachel had disappeared into thin air for almost two weeks, leaving her to deal with rumours, tabloids and failed performance commitments. The singer was more than aware that she had been far from professional, and yet her career had been the furthest thing from her mind.

'…but you can confirm with them _now_,' she stated, 'I _will_ be attending, and I _will_ be performing… Stewart and I have already rehearsed. We blocked it months ago… it won't be a problem…'

She listened wearily as the other woman ranted.

'Yes… yes, I know… _I_ _know!_'

She huffed irritably.

'Well, just be happy that I am back _on_ your radar… stop being so dramatic.'

Jasper raised his eyebrows at that comment. _Pot, meet kettle_. He turned, kicking the toe of his shoe against the mud of the curb. Yes. In a few hours they would be back in New York. And in a few days, maybe, all of this would be over… but somehow the stretch of time between the two points seemed infinite and fragile. Nothing was ever as simple as it seemed, and even as time tumbled on, he felt the world becoming thick with uncertainty.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. In the cabin.<strong>

'You're awake,' he stated needlessly.

She hadn't expected Carlos to be in the sitting room when she stepped out of the bedroom, and he had clearly not expected to see her. The little boy froze; his dark eyes wide with surprise. Quinn froze too, staring at him. It were as though time were standing still, or maybe, that for one moment, she had stepped out of time all together, lost in the possibilities of the life she could have had. But the choices were already made; the future set. If she had ever had a son, she hoped that he would have been something like the little boy in front of her; simultaneously the thought saddened her and strengthened her resolve.

'Where's your momma?' she asked softly.

He tilted his head, playing with the cuffs of his coat.

'Outside,' he replied hesitantly, intuitively catching on to her uncertainty, 'we... we were building a snowman.'

She smiled, biting her lip at the emotion that threatened to choke her again. Maybe things would have been different… in another life. In another life, where Michael had never existed, where her mother had been faithful to the man that she had married. Where mafia and murder and money were concepts far away…

'…I can get her…' he offered.

'No,' Quinn cut him off gently, 'no, sweetheart.'

For she knew that Brittany would only try to make her stay. That gentle, perceptive Brittany would be able to read her like a book… just as she had always done.

Carlos was looking up at her with those wide, dark eyes, eyes that were so trusting... She remembered the day that he was born, remembered holding him for the first time, taking him gently from Brittany as Santana slept. So small and delicate in her arms. Innocent and perfect.

She let the bag slip from her shoulder, placing it gently on the floor.

'You're leaving?' he asked.

Quinn crossed the distance between them, sitting down on the arm of the couch before him.

'I have to go,' she replied, the burning in her chest only intensifying as she studied his young face. She reached out, intending to ruffle his curls as she had always done, but the gesture wilted with the heaviness of her limbs and she found herself resting her hand on his shoulder instead. 'I have to go and get your Mami back…'

He looked at her uncertainly.

'Don't cry, Auntie Q,' he murmured, reaching out to softly touch her cheek in a gesture much older than his young years.

'I'm not crying,' she denied softly, though she could feel the tears seeping from the corners of her eyes. She tried to pull herself together, knowing that it would just frighten him to see her fall apart. She swallowed thickly against the lump in her throat. 'It may be a while until we see each other again, tiger… it may be a long while…'

'I don't want you to go…' he protested softly.

'I know…' she took a ragged breath, 'I know… but I need you to be good, sweetheart. I need you to look after your Momma, and your Mami… and your Auntie Rachel. And Jasper.'

'Even Jasper?' he repeated quietly.

'Even Jasper,' she nodded. 'And even when we don't see each other, I want you to remember that I will always be thinking about you… that I love you very much, Carlos. You are a wonderful boy, and I know that you are going to be a wonderful man one-day...'

He looked at her seriously, his lower lip starting to wobble. She tried to smile, but it was more painful than she could have imagined. She didn't realise what she was doing until she had already removed the cross from around her neck.

'I want you to have this,' she whispered, her fingers trembling as she flicked the clasp, 'to look after it for me… My father gave it to me when I was a baby, and it has kept me safe, for many years… It has protected me. And now it will protect you, and keep you safe… until we see each other again.'

His smaller fingers touched the small golden cross with careful reverence and Quinn pulled him into her arms, holding his smaller body close to hers as she tried to stem the tears that were threatening. He held her tightly, burying his face into her neck.

'Tell your Momma that I love her very much,' she murmured into his hair, 'very, very much. Okay?'

He nodded wordlessly, unwilling to let her go. And for a moment, Quinn thought that she wouldn't be able to let go either, that the bonds that tied her to him were stronger than the forces she knew had to take her away.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. In the cabin.<strong>

Carlos watched from the window as his Aunt climbed into Jasper's car.

His fingers played absently with the golden cross about his neck, the metal smooth and warm beneath his fingertips.

'Quinn! _Quinn - stop!'_

He could see his mother running across the snow, her long legs covering the distance quickly down the hill.

'Quinn!'

The engine had started; the car carefully reversing into the three-point turn on the snow.

'Quinn _– stop!'_

For a moment he thought that his mother may succeed in stopping her from leaving. Anxiety tightened in his chest, hoping that she would be fast enough. She slapped her hands against the trunk of the car as it started to accelerate along the path back up to the road, pulling away from her.

'_Quinn!'_

He had never heard his mother sound so desperate, running after the car as fast as she could, even as it disappeared into the distance. It was an image that would stay with him forever, through all the years to come. The cloudless sky above and the sunlight on the snow.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading - please review.<p> 


	29. Thicker than water

Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed and to everyone who is still reading this. Warnings: some violence / talk of violence.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 29 - Thicker than water<span>

**Lima. 2008. **

_The wine cooler made her head a little fuzzy and the world had slipped out of time, as though the audio track of her life was running at twice the speed of the visual. Matt's thick hands wrapped around her and the smell of him tickled her nose; deodorant and perspiration blending together in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. Yet it left the fourteen year old utterly confused. Being in his arms did not leave her yearning for more. She felt no desire for his fumbling, thick fingers and clumsy movements, and when she closed her eyes to kiss him, she could not deny to herself that it was someone else that she imagined holding her. The lips she felt were softer, the scent sweeter… In the darkness of the night, with her mind fuzzy from the first tastes of alcohol, Quinn found herself lost and frightened by the implications of her new and uncertain desires. _

'_Santana!'_

_A familiar voice startled her from the sloppy kiss and she reflexively turned towards the sound with a quickening of her heartbeat._

_Oh… shit. _

_Recognition sobered her up instantly. _

_Ever since she had been small, Quinn had simultaneously been awe-inspired and terrified of Maribel Lopez. _

'_Santana Marie Lopez!'_

_Somehow the older Latina's appearance at a house-party on a Friday night did not surprise Quinn in the slightest… for Santana's immediate future, however, it did not bode well. _

_She turned within her confused boyfriend's arms and grabbed Brittany by the wrist, dragging her from the conversation that she had been engaged in. _

'_Find Santana now and tell her to hide,' she hissed to the taller blonde. _

_Brittany looked perplexed and Quinn's grip tightened. _

'_Tell Santana to hide, now,' she repeated clearly, as the older woman caught sight of her from across the room. Maribel's eyes narrowed as she zoned in on her daughter's best friend, cutting through the crowd of drunk teenagers like a hot knife through butter. _

_Quinn swallowed. _

'_Lucy Quinn Fabray,' the woman growled, and the dangerous way in which she spoke her name sobered Quinn even further. _

'_Mrs Lopez…' she started as the woman bore down on her._

'_Don't you "Mrs Lopez" me, young lady,' the woman snapped, her hands planted firmly on her hips, 'what are you doing here and where is my daughter?'_

_The interaction was drawing the attention of the older teens and if Quinn hadn't been so surprised by Mamma Lopez's sudden appearance, she may have been embarrassed by it. She opened her mouth to speak, knowing that she had to be very careful about her answer. _

_Unlike her own, her best friend's family was close, but with the added warmth and security, Santana also had to contend with the restraints that her parents placed upon her. Unfortunately, one particular problem was their disapproval of the house-parties that had become ever more frequent since the two friends had become the newest and youngest members of the Cheerios. Quinn knew that Santana was absolutely forbidden to attend them, even though she always did, and would catch hell if her mother found out._

'_You're Santana's mom?' Matt asked, looking both surprised and dazed, and for a moment Quinn cursed him for drawing attention to himself. Mrs Lopez turned her angry gaze on the boy, her fiery eyes hardening as he checked her out appreciatively. _

'_Remove your hands from Miss Fabray,' she snapped, her accent thicker in her anger, 'before I cut them off at the wrist!'_

_Matt looked up at her, shocked, holding his hands up in surrender the moment that she finished speaking. At his bewildered expression, Quinn rolled her eyes. He was truly the most harmless boy… but that only served to remind her that she didn't find it the most attractive quality._

'_And you, mija,' Maribel's hand had wrapped around her arm before Quinn could blink, 'come with me.'_

_She half guided, half dragged Quinn into the guest bedroom behind the pool house, turning her fierce glare on the teenagers that were loitering in there. _

'_Out, out, out, out, out, out!' she pointed at each of them in turn and Quinn caught Brittany's deliberate look towards the large oak closet before the taller blonde shuffled obediently from the room. _

_The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Quinn alone with Santana's furious mother. _

_The blonde rolled her eyes heavenwards once again; sometimes her life felt like a circus, and Santana Lopez, in all her idiocy, often made it that way. Maribel, having failed to find her own errant daughter, seemed content with releasing some of her ire on the girl that she practically considered her own. _

_She pointed deliberately to the bed._

'_Sit!'_

_Quinn obeyed. _

_She knew Mamma Lopez well enough to know that she did not have much choice in the matter and would be better off trying to mollify the Latina._

_When Quinn had been small, the woman's passionate intensity had confused her; as had her expressiveness, in both her affection and her displeasure, and most bizarrely, how unselfconsciously physical she was with her daughter. While Quinn came from a family where everything was muted and restrained, the unapologetic warmth of the Lopez household had left her both uncertain and in awe. For many years, she had found herself achingly jealous of her best friend for having such warm relations with her parents. _

'_Do your parents know that you are here?'_

'_Do you think that my parents would care?' _

_The cool question was out of Quinn's mouth before she thought to censor it._

_Maribel's eyes narrowed at her and Quinn took a steadying breath. She was usually quite proficient at keeping on the good side of Santana's volatile mother, better than Santana was in fact, but tonight she felt herself wandering out into dangerous territory. _

'_Quinn…'_

'_My mother is away,' she stated shortly, holding the older woman's gaze, 'Chicago.'_

_She was always in goddamn Chicago these days._

'_And your father?' Maribel prompted. _

_Quinn snorted derisively; she didn't know, or care. It was a hard and fast rule that not even Santana asked her about her family these days. _

'_Drop the attitude, mija,' Maribel warned; the soft, affectionate pet-name hardening against her teeth. _

_Quinn knew that she was treading on thin ice simply by being so unapologetically flippant, but her mood today was particularly mercurial and she was struggling to control it. _

'_He's away,' she replied reluctantly._

'_So, you are home alone?' the dark eyes were scandalised and inwardly Quinn groaned. It was nothing new to the blonde teenager to be left for a few days here and there, in fact, it was something that she enjoyed… but in the Lopez household it would be utterly unheard of. _

'_My sister is home from college,' she lied, hoping that it would placate the older Latina. _

'_Aye dios mio…!'_

'_And I am more than capable of taking care of myself…'_

'_You are fourteen years old!'_

'…_so, in some states, I could be married,' Quinn pointed out. _

'_Not in this one.'_

_Quinn tilted her head to the side, raising one eyebrow at the infuriated Latina. _

'_In New Hampshire I could…' she replied tenaciously, the smallest hint of smugness on her lips. _

_Maribel's gaze was fierce and Quinn met it head on; there was something exhilarating about antagonising Mamma Lopez, about pushing the fiery Latina's buttons. Quinn was more than aware that the further she dragged out the Spanish Inquisition, the more deviated from her original trajectory Maribel became._

'…_and in New York.'_

_Quite deliberately, Maribel took a breath, knowing that she was being played and feeling far from pleased about it. She cared for little Lucy Fabray almost as deeply as she did her own child, but if the fourteen year old thought that she would get away with trying to call the shots, then she was seriously mistaken. _

_The Latina folded her arms across her chest. _

'_Have you been drinking?' She asked in a clipped tone. _

'_No, ma'am,' Quinn lied quickly. _

'_Smoking?'_

'_No, ma'am.'_

_Maribel narrowed her eyes again at the young blonde, wishing that she could read her better. _

_To her, this was the same little girl that Santana had both adored and despised through grade-school, the same little girl who had taught her daughter how to tie her laces and had goaded her into cutting her hair with safety scissors. They could have been sisters with the way in which they endlessly antagonised each other, and through the years Maribel had come to think of Quinn as another child of her own._

_But unlike Santana, who she could read like a book, Lucy Quinn Fabray could lie; she could look at you with that angelic face and lie to you straight without even blinking an eye._

'_Is my daughter here?'_

_Quinn didn't hesitate as she shook her head. _

'_No ma'am,' she replied firmly. _

_Maribel tightened her jaw. _

'_If you are lying to me, Quinn…'_

'_I'm not lying,' Quinn cut her off. 'She's not here… we had a fight. She wouldn't come, I swear.'_

_The Latina narrowed her eyes dangerously, leaning closer to the teenager. _

'_If I find out that you are lying to me, Quinn,' she started again, her voice tight, 'what I did when I found out you and San had egged that house when you were eight will pale in comparison, understand?'_

_The teenager didn't even blink._

'_Yes ma'am.' _

_As if either of them could forget that day. It took willpower for the blonde not to squirm under that gaze, and Maribel could see it in the way her body stilled. The Latina pressed her advantage. _

'_Where is my daughter, mija?'_

_Quinn twitched, chewing on her inner cheek._

'_Right this moment?' She stalled. 'I'm not entirely sure…'_

_The Latina pursed her lips, showing no sign of softening, as she watched the girl's expressions closely. Quinn's courage was starting to leech out of her, withering under the woman's glare. _

'_Santana's fine,' Quinn said finally, 'I know she's fine, Mamma Lopez. I would never let any harm come to her. I look out for her, I swear I do…' _

'_I know you do…'_

'_She's my best friend…'_

_Maribel raised an eyebrow._

'_Then as her best friend, I suggest you tell her to start behaving herself before I really lose my patience with her,' she exhaled heavily, frustrated, glancing around herself as though she had just noticed that she was still within the chaos of the wild teenage house-party. The heavy base of the music was vibrating through the walls and the sound of voices chattering was loud beyond the door. 'You need to both start behaving yourselves…'_

_The blonde glanced down to the floor at the soft chastisement, and in a second, the façade dropped, leaving Maribel suddenly struck by how young she looked. Underneath it all, Quinn had always been the sweetest girl; so curiously eager to please, so keen for affection and yet so afraid to accept it. She stepped forwards and Quinn tensed, only to look up in surprise as Maribel planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. _

'_Come on, mija,' she said firmly, 'we're going home.'_

_Quinn blinked up at her. _

'_Home?' she echoed with confusion. _

_Maribel gave her a hard look that dared her to argue. _

'_Home,' she replied firmly, 'until your parents get back, you are staying with us. And whilst you are staying with us you are not attending any Cheerio, Jock or other senior house-parties.'_

'_But…' _

'_But nothing,' she stepped towards the door. The girl should know by now that once Maribel Lopez had made up her mind, there was no arguing with her. 'I don't care what you think about this, and I don't care what Santana thinks either. You are family, Quinn Fabray, our family, and we will look after you as our family... You can say goodbye to your friends, but you had better be in the car in five minutes…'_

'_Mamma Lopez...' Quinn, once again, tried to object. _

_Maribel turned at the door, pointing sharply at the blonde cheerleader. _

'_Five minutes, Quinn,' she repeated firmly, before stalking out the room, muttering to herself in Spanish. _

_The door closed with finality behind her and Quinn bit her lip, wondering what exactly had just happened. She felt a strange mixture of warmth, affection and fierce irritation. _

_After a few moments, when she was convinced that the woman had actually left and wasn't about to stride back in through the bedroom door, ranting in Spanish, as she sometimes did, Quinn let her gaze fall on the oak wardrobe. _

'_Your fat ass totally owes me, bitch,' she stated quietly, glaring at the wooden panelling. _

_There was a shuffling sound behind the doors. _

'_You are shit scared of my mami, Q,' Santana's muffled voice came from within the wardrobe, a hint of amusement in her tone. _

_Quinn rolled her eyes. _

'_And yet I'm not the one hiding in a wardrobe,' she replied pointedly. _

_As the door to said-wardrobe slowly swung open, Santana's dark head lolled out to the side, looking at her best-friend upside down. _

'_Slut,' she shot, with a healthy dose of affection. _

'_Whore,' Quinn smirked. _

'_Cunt.'_

'_You need to think up a good excuse as to where you have been tonight before you get both of our asses handed to us,' Quinn stated as she stood up, straightening her clothes as she did so._

_Santana groaned loudly in response. Quinn snorted. _

'_I can't think of everything for you, San,' she huffed. _

'_I'm not asking you to…'_

'_No?'_

'_No. I just… I can't lie like you can,' the Latina admitted, trying to stretch her cramped limbs, 'it's so seamless when you do it… even Mami can't tell.'_

_Quinn rolled her eyes once more, an unexpected sadness taking root within her at her best friend's words. _

'_That's not something to envy,' she murmured. Turning her back to her friend,she wrapped her long arms around herself protectively. 'Try to make it back to your house before us… I'll take her on a detour to pick up some clothes from my house or something.'_

_She moved to leave before Santana's voice stopped her, just as she rested her hand upon the handle of the door. _

'_Hey, Q…' she called hesitantly, 'look… thanks. Okay?'_

_Quinn paused by the door and glanced back over her shoulder; tendrils of that cool, damp feeling still meandering up through her like strangle-weed. _

'_You know… I meant what I said, San,' she replied, 'I've always got your back… No matter what.'_

_Santana strained to see her as she tried to pull herself up and out of the cramped wardrobe. Quinn was halfway out the door, but she heard Santana's answer anyway. _

'_And you're family, Q. My family.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Present. <strong>

Filter coffee tasted like mud in the diner and the meat of her burger was oily and thick. The fluorescent lights seemed to leech the colour from the walls, leaving it all in varying shades of grey. Quinn felt the heaviness of it pressing down on her.

'Hey… you sure I don't know you?'

The waitress was looking at her curiously from across the counter again, even her young skin washed-out by the lighting.

'I'm not from around here,' Quinn replied certainly, before taking another bite of the burger.

'But… you look so familiar,' the girl persisted, watching her as she chewed slowly. 'I swear I know your face.'

Quinn shrugged; trying to remain polite, though she really just wanted to be left alone.

'You must have me mistaken with someone else…' she replied.

She reached into her bag to pull out her phone; it was dead of course, the battery flat after being turned off since she had left New York. She placed it on the counter as she chewed the burger thoughtfully, looking at the black screen.

'Do you mind if I charge my phone behind the counter?' she asked finally, glancing up to the waitress who had been watching her none-too-subtly from her position at the coffee machine.

'Sure,' the girl smiled brightly, all too happy to be helpful.

Quinn looked out the window once again, to the dark of the cold night outside. So much had happened in such a short time, and now she was at a crossroads once again. Alone and uncertain.

And which way to turn this time? Forward or back, left; right? No decision she had ever made had led her in a straight line, and she could not say whether any one of them had been the right decision... just decisions made for the right reasons, or so she hoped.

The screen of the phone blinked to life and she dialled Rachel's number, waiting as it went to voicemail before hanging up. She knew that the singer would not have her phone on, and yet some part of her had still hoped that she would. She tried Jasper; then Santana, but the result remained the same.

'Where are you running to, Rachel?' she murmured, staring deep into the night. 'What are you doing?'

It was chance that her eyes landed on the magazine as she left the diner half an hour later, and she froze mid-stride, unable to believe her eyes. She snatched it from the rack, only to see another with the same photographs fall to the floor behind it. It was not even the crude headlines that made her stomach lurch as she looked at them, at the way in which the winter light caught them both, her face and Rachel's close together on the glossy paper. The intimacy of Jasper's photographs, with their crystal sharp edges and voyeuristic detail, left little doubt as to the nature of the scenes.

Anger twisted inside her, flaring back to the rage that she had experienced before. She stormed from the diner, back towards the car as she dialled the familiar number of the brunette's phone. It went straight to voicemail again.

'Pick up,' she ordered angrily. 'Pick up the goddamn phone, Rachel Barbra Berry! What the hell do you think that you are doing? _Pick up!_'

Her hand was shaking as she tried to open the door, hanging up in irritation before focussing on turning the key in the lock. She threw her bag down onto the passenger seat and slammed the door behind her, that same helpless anger trembling through her.

The clouds had blotted out the stars and the moon, leaving the night densely dark. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, the desire to put her foot down hard on the accelerator and race all the way to New York was almost overwhelming. It was the same desire that would have her snatch up Rachel and Santana, Jasper and Brittany and Carlos and take them all away… all far away, to a place cut off from the world… to a place that would be safe.

Quinn pressed the heals of her hands against her eyes.

It was an impulsive desire that would solve nothing, that could solve nothing. What she needed to do was stop Waters, to eliminate him and the danger that he posed to her family.

It was as she was trying to calm herself down that it occurred to her… that there was one person who was likely to know exactly where Rachel was.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

Jasper wasn't certain whether Santana had flung her arms around Rachel, or whether Rachel had flung herself into Santana's arms… not that it mattered what the distinction was as he stood there uncertainly. The two held each other on the threshold of the Lopez house, with the intensity of those clinging on to life.

Santana was murmuring in the smaller brunette's ear, whispered words that tried to balm the stormy emotions that had been churning beneath the surface since they had left the cabin in the early hours of the morning.

From behind the Latina, Jasper could see the older man hovering in the doorway. Grey eyes met his and he felt the chill run through him; of strange inevitability. He stepped into the house and gently closed the door against the outside world. Roy's nod of acknowledgement was almost imperceptible.

'Quinn left the cabin,' Santana told them later, as they settled down around the coffee table in the sitting room. Without Brittany, the fire did not burn in the fireplace, and the room seemed greyer and colder for it; the blue of the shadows hanging heavy in the corners.

Rachel stiffened, but did not speak, her dark eyes clouded. Jasper moved closer to the singer, his arm finding its way around her narrow shoulders.

'She could be in New York by morning,' Santana stated quietly.

'It doesn't change anything,' Jasper replied, shrugging when they looked at him. 'It's too late to change our minds… the wheels are already turning. Whatever Quinn does, or doesn't do will not change what we _need_ to do now.'

Santana's eyes filled with familiar determination and it warmed him to know that she still had it, despite everything that had happened. Santana Lopez had always reminded him of those wild fires that spring up in the blazing heat of a summer day and then burn everything in their path. Passionate, intense, beautiful.

'Are you sure that you can go through with it?' her voice was soft and rough, speaking to Rachel, who's eyes flicked up to meet hers.

'Are you sure that you can?' the singer countered.

Roy watched the three of them, his arms folded across his chest, and Jasper caught his eye once more.

'You will kill him?' he found his voice and was struck by the uncertainty of it. The grey eyes looked back at him guardedly.

'If he leaves that apartment, he is dead anyway, regardless of whether I pull the trigger or not,' he replied quietly. At Jasper's frown he elaborated. 'We are governed by our natures, each and every one of us. Waters' nature is that of a hunter, he is obsessive, compulsive, hungry for the kill… he values that above all else... which is why, if he sees the opportunity to have her then he will leave…'

He stepped forwards, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

'But, for the Lucchese,' he continued, 'and for everyone who has colluded to sidestep justice for him, he will become a liability the moment he leaves that apartment… the Lucchese will definitely not let him live if he is going to compromise them.'

Rachel's fingers found Santana's, linking them together.

'We are talking about killing a man…' the Latina murmured; her voice hollow. 'Can you believe we are talking about _killing_ a man?'

Jasper swallowed, the tingling feeling unpleasant across his skin.

'We are talking about protecting our family,' Rachel replied softly.

Beside her, Santana's eyes remained troubled, the violet shadows of the night crossing her features.

Jasper was reminded suddenly, in that moment, of the turning points that Quinn had once agonised over, years ago, in Boston. Of the choices that you make. The ones that, once done, cannot be undone; the things you do that change you whether you intend them to or not. He knew that the three of them were bound now; that he, and Rachel, and Santana, were tied together, no matter the consequences of this night. It would be something that he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

'We are protecting our family,' he echoed, meeting the Latina's uneasy gaze.

Rachel leant into his body, and not for the first time, he was reminded of how small she was against him. She tightened her grip on Santana's hand.

Jasper wanted to tell them that it would be okay, but the words tasted like ash on his tongue.

The brown eyes blinked up at him, her voice nothing but a whisper.

'And what happens if we fail?'

* * *

><p><strong>Two weeks earlier. Illinois.<strong>

_The early morning light glanced off the landscape, splaying itself across the spectrum of colours as the sun rose above the horizon. Quinn had to shield her eyes from it, fumbling for the battered aviators that she had bought somewhere in a market stall in a country far away. It was a connection to another life, a parallel universe in which she had existed for too long._

_I trust you to do the right thing… _

_She had driven through the night and a heavy weariness clung to her, as though her clothes had become saturated with it, dragging her down. The hospital in Chicago was far behind her now, and yet, in her thoughts it still loomed; a colossus that spread its cold shadow out across her._

…_the right thing… the thing that I could not. _

_The city lights had blurred with the tears that she refused to shed for him. Not now, not yet. It chilled her to know, without a doubt, that she would never see her father again, that the book had closed on his life. The gavel fell. Time waits for no one; ticking steadily onwards, as irrefutable and inescapable as the fate that drives each and every person along their path._

_Amid the rolling fields of wild flowers, the house came into view. Quinn slowed the car, checking the co-ordinates that he had given her on the sat-nav before looking up at it again. She chewed her lip between her teeth, trying to quash the uncertainty that was writhing within her belly. _

'_Come on, Fabray…' _

_She eyed the house with suspicion as she parked the car, stepping out into the cool of the spring morning and wrapping her arms about herself. _

_Splintered glass glittered on the ground from the broken windows and the irregular wooden panels had been nailed in haphazardly. She stood for a moment, just staring at it. There was something so sad about the broken house that sent a wave of melancholy crashing over her. _

_This was the house in which Michael had been born. The house in which he had grown from boy to man. _

_It seemed so small somehow. Small and forgotten; unloved. _

_You are the last of us… he had said._

_And to return it all to the ground… to burn it. Destroy, everything; and let them all fade into obscurity, as memory fades, like the last note of an old song. For if everyone you love is gone, then there is no one to be remembered for, or by. _

_She walked towards the house, resting her hand against the cool stone of the wall. _

_Loneliness was something she had become accustomed to. Like this house she had been boarded up; parts of her shattered, others still standing strong and bare to the elements. She wondered whether they would both burn, in their own ways, eventually. _

_The cobwebs were thick as she made her way down, as he had told her. Down the stone steps by the side of the building, towards the old storm shelter. She smashed a rock against the rusting lock; it was not hard to break and she gently pressed open the thick door. _

_The electric light flickered to life, casting an orange glow across the shadows of the cluttered room, dust swirling in the air about her. _

_Careful not to touch anything, Quinn crossed the threshold. The musty smell of old papers filled her nostrils and she let her gaze travel slowly across the walls, the shelves and boxes stacked high with files and papers, an old cassette player in the corner, beneath it a VCR… but for the small wooden desk in the corner, and the school chair that went with it, there was no furniture in the room, just boxes. Boxed upon boxes upon more. _

_Quinn turned on the spot, the old thunder lamp flickering its light above her._

_What was it worth? She wondered. For what good would it be?_

_Michael had seemed to think that there was enough here to implicate people at every level of society, to expose the web of corruption that he had been part of for so long… but could they even use any of it as evidence? Papers and recordings of people who could not even necessarily be identified or verified... and with Michael dead, surely most of the information that he had gathered was next to useless... and if it was not, then surely bringing it to the attention of the authorities, the same authorities that it inevitably implicated, would ensure that whatever was here would be covered up anyway. _

_Was it worth it?_

_Quinn turned on the spot. Her eyes becoming accustomed to the dim light, scanning the walls, the neat white labels, written in a hand that not unlike her own._

_Was it worth becoming a target for? _

_For if she had learnt anything, then it was that these people were ruthless. There was nothing that they wouldn't do to protect themselves, and to proceed with such a venture, she knew that she had to be prepared to pay the highest price._

_Her eyes fell, at last, upon the newspaper cuttings that were pinned to the wall, curled and yellow at the edges. She stepped closer, frowning at them as a familiar name caught her eye among the others. _

_Family perish in house blaze. The Lima News. 20__th__ July 2012._

_The faded ink of the burnt out house beside the headline struck Quinn hard in her chest and she reached out to touch the fading print before curling her fingers back. She had no intention of leaving any fingerprints here. _

_That may be where it had started for her, that terrible fire, but it was not the beginning… for the roots were strong and gnarled, spreading deep through society and leeching from individuals everywhere._

_She exhaled deeply, reminded so potently, once again, of all that had happened because of this man, because of Michael. Quinn knew, with horrible certainty, that she could not, in good conscience, let this place burn. That if there was any chance that the information hidden within these walls could overturn the system, a system that played with blood and money and murder, that if any of this could expose it at its most vulnerable parts, then she was duty bound to do it, no matter the consequences for herself. No matter the price._

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York. <strong>

Santana felt numb as she approached building. It was the same route that she had taken each day; her heals clicking on the lobby floor, the elevator up to the sixth, waiting with muted anxiety as it rose through the building. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the briefcase, waiting as the numbers climbed. The metal doors slid open, and the corridor stretched out before her to the white door of the apartment, the two officers flicking their eyes to her as she stepped out.

Her palms felt sweaty. She could feel the apprehension running down her spine.

Waters was waiting for her, his broad back facing her as she settled her case on the table in the dining room, the same place that they had sat for the last week during these sessions. He was standing perfectly still, looking out of the window to the building opposite.

She dropped her pen, her fingers unsteady and it clattered onto the table-top.

At the movement, he glanced over his shoulder at her, his sharp eyes fixing on her.

'Are you nervous?' he asked astutely, in that low tone of his.

Santana froze in his gaze, her breath catching. A flicker of expression crinkled at the corners of his eyes as they looked at each other.

'You usually hide it better,' he commented, turning back to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. She slowly sat down at the table, watching him closely. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the flesh of his forearms thick above the taut muscle beneath. She noticed, for the first time, the small, matching tattoos against the soft skin of his wrists. Each of them a cross.

Her gaze lingered on them for the longest moment as she waited for him to turn.

'What are you looking at?' she asked, breaking the silence.

The cloud had settled over the city, the sky turning a steely grey which burnished under the occasional breakthrough of sunlight.

'I saw a star, fall from heaven unto the earth…' he replied quietly. The way that he spoke was almost always soft, the words measured and deliberate. He turned back to look at her, his eyes dark. 'And, to him, was given the key of the bottomless pit.'

Santana blinked, the words plucking at memories long since faded. Of church on Sunday mornings, and the itchiness of her dress, trying to sit still through the sermon. Her father had sneaked her sweets to keep her quiet and invariably had them both in trouble with her mother.

'The morning star?'

His lips twisted.

'He opened the pit,' Waters continued softly, 'and there arose smoke… as the smoke of a great furnace… and the sun and the air were darkened.'

He stalked to the chair opposite her, his eyes falling across the papers that she had already spread out across the table.

'Revelations 9:1.' He stated.

'I know,' she replied, her throat tightening around the words. For, more than she had ever done, Santana had found herself contemplating her faith in the last week; faith that she had never believed that she had. And yet, as the darker thoughts had encroached on the edges of her consciousness, the lines that had once seemed so clear, blurred.

'The first time I killed, it was within a rectory,' he said quietly. 'I had been an altar boy for so many years… and he… he abused us, all of us.' He ground his teeth, repeating himself softly. 'For so many years.'

Santana stilled, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

Joe Waters had told her many things of the people that he had killed, of both the hunt and the act, and the gruesome details in between. His words chilled her, chilled her with the calm, careful way in which he spoke and the pleasure he took in disclosing. She knew that his words would stay with her forever.

The controlled, intelligent sociopath facing her was the closest thing to evil that she had ever encountered, evil that she had never believed in before.

'It was violent, and messy,' he shook his head, 'I have never killed anyone as messily as that... I burnt the place down. Smashed out his teeth. Snapped off his fingers. Cut off his dick and shoved it in the bloody hole of his mouth… I didn't care much for religion after that.'

Santana felt the nausea rise. She folded her hands upon each other, taking a breath that tried not to shake.

'Why are you telling me this?' She asked.

Beneath her hands, within her briefcase, the magazine seemed heavy as lead. Santana felt so acutely aware of it that her hands almost trembled above.

'Every artist needs an audience,' he replied obliquely.

Santana stood abruptly, feeling uncommonly unsteady. It was too hot beneath the collar of her jacket, the sweat was beading on the back of her neck, despite the cold outside, and she felt as though the edges of her vision were turning grey. In the movement, though, she knocked her briefcase to the floor, the clasp breaking open as it hit the carpet, the papers tumbling out.

Her eyes, and his, fell to them, to the magazine that was partly concealed beneath the sheets. With a surge of protectiveness, Santana fell to her knees to cover it up, to hide the pictures from his eyes. But his roughened hands closed around hers, and the chilling fear ran through her as she looked up at him, to the glassy, intent look in his eyes as he pulled the magazine from beneath the papers, his gaze fixed on it.

The beating of her heart was like a death knell, and she realised with horror that everything that they planned would come to pass, that Roy had made the correct judgement of him… Waters would leave the apartment. He would come to Rachel. Because, even after all these years… despite everything… it was still Quinn that he sought. The last trophy that he had to collect.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

Hazel eyes rolled up to the bruised sky above the Hudson river.

The sun was struggling to cut through the cloud, but when it did, it gleamed upon the glass of the buildings. The New York skyline, that had been in her thoughts and her memories so often, stood tall and fierce before the imposing backdrop. It had, of course, been Rachel who had brought her here, so many years ago, first in her thoughts and then her dreams, back in a time when dreams of being an actress had overwhelmed everything she did.

Quinn took a steadying breath.

Already, the letter was sent. She had used the last of her cash to have it couriered, and somewhere, now, across the country it travelled. The white of the paper innocent of the message that it bore.

Already, the die was cast.

If we should fail? Macbeth had asked, all those years ago, and Quinn remembered her lines in that play as well as she remembered her lines in her life.

'We fail,' she whispered, her fingers tightening over the rail of the bridge, 'but screw your courage to the sticking place… and we'll not fail.'

His footsteps were hesitant and Quinn straightened as she heard them approach. The cold wind whipped her hair across her face; the sun playing its game with the shadows upon the surface of the water.

'_Gabriel_.'

She turned towards his voice, meeting his eyes.

'You are not who I expected,' he said finally, watching her with unveiled suspicion. He was clean shaven, his hair cut in sharp military angles and his NYPD coat zipped up to his chin. It was strange now, how the law enforcement uniform seemed to set her on edge. Michael had seen shadows everywhere, and Quinn was starting to understand why.

'I suppose not,' she agreed, not breaking the gaze. No doubt, he had expected an older member of the Chicago business, a familiar face, unlike her own... He had expected a gangster, not a young woman.

She leant back against the rail of the bridge, the cool of it against her numb fingers. Her eyes dropped to the gun at his belt, the shiver running up her spine.

'Are you a reporter?' he asked.

'No.'

'Wired?'

'No.'

He held his ground, watching her carefully but not willing to get too close.

'How did you get those codes?' he demanded finally. 'How do you know about "Gabriel"?'

Quinn hesitated, her knuckles blanching on the rail behind.

The "Gabriel" codewords had not been hard to find within Michael's archives; the names and details of her father's lethal enforcers within New York, the corrupt cops who had worked as informants and murderers.

'I know who you are,' she stated, not flinching back from the look in his eyes. 'I know what you do… for the business. The things that you have done… For men like Mickey Quinn.'

'Are you trying to blackmail me?' he demanded, stepping closer.

'No,' she replied firmly, 'no… this isn't blackmail. I have no desire to blackmail you.'

He tilted his head to the side.

'Then… what?' he asked dangerously.

The sun flickered and then shrank behind the clouds, the day turning darker as it was blotted out. Her fingers uncurled from around the rail and she dropped them to her sides, a nauseating feeling churning within her.

'I need you,' she started, catching her breath against the wind, 'you and your enforcers… I need you to kill a man.'

The police officer folded his arms across his chest, measuring her up with his hard gaze. When they stood like this, three feet from each other, the difference in their heights was marked. The expression on his face did not change.

'To kill a man?' he echoed ominously.

'To kill a man.' She repeated quietly. 'Tonight.'

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

Santana could hear the music before she entered the church, the sound of the choir as they rehearsed rising up and reverberating off the stone walls. The great vaulted ceilings were somehow both imposing and comforting, the feeling of being so small within the building, within the world.

Santana hovered by the great wooden doors, almost afraid to enter.

It had been so many years since she had attended church, having turned from it, as Quinn had, to find a more personal and private faith within herself. For many years, she had thought that it had no place in her life, that it was something lost within her childhood, and yet through the last few days her mind had drifted frequently to this place, not so much to the words of the religion, but the comfort that it brought. The cool air wrapped her in its damp blanket, muffled her within the heavy stillness of the thick stone walls.

The voices of the choir were chilling, their minor chords drawing her in. Crimson light through the stained glass windows glanced off the pale stone of the pillars and her eyes were drawn to them as she sat hesitantly on a pew, these pale columns of blood.

Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed.

She thought of picking up the bible from the row in front, but then thought better of it. She needed reassurance, not the hollowness of written words. She sat there and listened to the choir; waiting. Waiting. Waiting, as the seconds passed; as they dragged on into minutes. She knew that she needed to go back to Water's apartment before the evening, as she did each and every night, but just the idea of walking the short distance to his block was sickening. They had all agreed that she must not, under any circumstances, deviate from her usual daily routine with him, lest any connection be made to her.

'It's beautiful.'

The elderly man had settled himself at the end of the row in front of her, his wrinkled mocha skin glowing with the mosaic of colourful light. Santana's eyes went to him, uncertain of what to say.

'The music,' he elaborated, 'this choir… it's beautiful. So beautiful. There was a time when they forbid this piece from being performed anywhere… let alone in a church.'

She nodded politely, really just wanting to be left alone. She didn't recognise the piece, but then it was Brittany who indulged in classical music, not herself.

'I don't know it,' she replied vaguely.

'Don't know it?' he echoed, turning around fully to stare at her, the whites of his eyes flashing.

Santana smiled faintly as she shook her head.

'I don't even understand the words…' she admitted softly.

'You don't need to understand the words,' he replied, 'it's music. It sings through you. You can feel the meaning… can't you feel it?'

Sitting still beneath the pattern of coloured glass, Santana listened to the music that was reverberating off the walls. It did move through her, she realised; it made the hairs rise across her skin, sent tingles down her spine. It filled her with dread and apprehension.

It wasn't so much that they had planned the man's death that bothered her, she realised; it was that she wanted him dead in the first place. That was a much darker part of her soul to reconcile.

She sat there a long time, listening to the music. Until the choir paused for the sixth time; the choirmaster talking to them in low tones. Glancing at her watch she realised that it was almost six and that she was already late.

'Have a good evening,' she said to her unexpected companion, slipping out from the pew.

'Oh, wait,' he waved her back, his eyes bright. 'Did you understand what it was saying to you? What it means?'

Santana paused, dismissal on the tip of her tongue. And then, unexpectedly, she changed her mind. She looked up to the stained glass, shrugging her shoulders.

'Inevitability,' she replied finally. 'Power. And violence. And… _inevitability_.'

The man smiled in his gentle way.

'Carmina burana is about all those things,' he replied contentedly. 'The malevolence of fate.'

His words were interrupted by the sound of the bell as it struck the hour. The first strike of the evening, and Santana stiffened, making her quick excuses to leave and hurry down the aisle, out of the church. Behind her, the choir struck up again, the haunting chords resonating within her long after she had left the building, each step taking her towards the apartment. Each step closer.

* * *

><p><strong>Present. New York.<strong>

As she entered the elevator, Santana tried to quell her rising anxiety. She felt almost drunk with the adrenaline that was pumping through her today. When she had left the house in the morning, she had realised that she would not see her home again, nor her wife, nor child… not until the events of today had unfolded. Not until the deed was done and they were safely on the other side. The doors were closing on one part of her life, and opening, she hoped, to another.

The dial of the elevator rose, but when it stopped at his floor and the doors opened, the corridor was unexpectedly dark.

Santana blinked; squinting her eyes as she tried to adjust them to the light. There was a strange, faint, rattling noise, and then it was gone.

It was not long after six and the stillness of the corridor put her nerves on edge. A sweet smell hung in the air. A smell that was strangely familiar and yet she couldn't quite place it.

'Hello?' she called out hesitantly.

The officers by the door sometimes went into the apartment, but it wasn't usual for them to do so. She hung back, her finger hovering over the button for the ground floor. Her senses were screaming for her to leave, but in the silence she was almost afraid to move.

The emergency lighting in the corridor gave off a green glow, not quite enough to see by, but as her eyes adjusted, Santana could make out the shadows on the floor.

That same strange, rattling noise came again, and it was with horror that Santana realised that one of the shadows was moving. That it was breathing.

She rushed out into the corridor and the motion sensors started to flicker the bright lights to life, revealing a scene that made the bile rise in her throat as she started to retch. She brought her hand up to her mouth, shock paralysing her body as each muscle tensed.

Blood streaked crimson against the walls, soaking into the carpet in black patches. The bodies of the two officers were slashed to ribbons, spread across the floor in a tableau of messy and violent carnage.

One stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide and glassy. Across his throat, the scarlet cut gaped as wide as a second mouth, smiling and screaming. The waxy and pale skin seemed unreal beneath the stark lighting. Santana reached out to support herself against the wall, her knees failing her.

A noise was tearing at her ears, high pitched and constant, and it was only when she came to breathe again that she realised that she was screaming.

The second man took another difficult, rattling breath, the blood bubbling up and around his mouth. She wanted to reach for him but instead she fell back against the wall, her hands shaking.

This wasn't meant to happen.

No one was meant to die… no one was meant to die but Waters.

There was a movement from the corner of her eye and she looked up with horror as he stepped into the frame of the open door. He was as quietly imposing as he had been before, looking quite untouched by what he had done.

He tilted his head to watch her, unsurprised that she was there, his eyes narrowing as they would at a blemish in an otherwise familiar landscape.

'What have you done?' she heard herself ask. 'What have you done?'

He bent to one knee, the bloodied knife in his hand. The flat of the blade glimmered as he slid it down between the skin of his leg and the plastic casing of the electronic police tag. The crack of the plastic was loud.

Santana shuddered. She wanted to run, but her legs were like jelly. She thought of Quinn; of how she been faced by Waters in the hospital after watching her brother die. She thought of her son; of how innocent and curious he was about the world, this awful dark world. Her mouth was dry. If she had held a gun in her hand, then she would have killed Joseph Waters, without guilt or regret. Without hesitation.

Another rattling breath; prolonged and desperate. Santana braced herself against the wall as the tag snapped off; the corridor suddenly filled with the screaming of the alarm.

The whites of his eyes flashed as he flicked his gaze to her once more. He crossed the threshold. Slowly. Deliberately. She stared at him with her deep, dark eyes and they faced each other fully.

'They can't cage me,' he said quietly.

She swallowed, pressing herself back against the wall as he pressed forwards.

'You're lucky, Santana,' he stated, raising his forefinger to dab at the speck of blood that had landed on the skin overlying his cheekbone. 'You are lucky that you are on my side...'

He held her gaze for a long moment, before he turned, and stalked slowly away, down the corridor and towards the stairwell in steady, deliberate strides.

Against the wall, Santana held her hands over her heart, feeling it race beneath her rib cage. She closed her eyes against the bloodied bodies and the sickly sweet smell of blood.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading - please review.<p> 


	30. Dust to dust

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this fic, and to everyone who has come this far with this story. I am feeling massively emotionally drained after this chapter - it has been hard to write it.

Warnings: violence - both emotional and physical.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 30 – Dust to dust<span>

'We are in New York City, reporting live…'

Rachel plastered a broad smile on her face as she waved to the fans before turning back to the camera that was trained on her.

'…from the sixteenth annual Apollo Theatre awards.'

The crowd surged against the barriers. They moved, it seemed, as one large mass, as fluid as a wave on the sea. Rachel shivered as the cold air of the evening bit at her skin.

'Rachel! Rachel! _Rachel!_'

The chant had been taken up as soon as she had stepped out of the limousine and onto the red carpet, stirring within her a mixture of elation and fear. Rachel found her heart fluttering with nerves, the dark undertone of her anxiety leaving her mouth dry.

'Rachel Berry!' The beaming reporter caught her attention. 'Broadway sensation, Rachel Berry, ladies and gentlemen! Rachel, how are you feeling?'

Jasper was behind her. Rachel could almost feel his broad, solid presence reassuring her. She took a steadying breath, keeping the smile firmly in place.

'To be honest with you, Robert, my heart is racing,' she replied, feeling it thrum within her chest. The noise of the night was thick with energy and the clouds gathered above the city blotting out the stars as darkness fell.

'This is your third Apollo award ceremony…'

'It is.'

'Are you excited?'

The cameras were flashing at her from the crowd, as disorienting as strobe lighting, but her skin felt cold and numb. She was as pale as a ghost beneath their bright lights.

'Excited?' she echoed.

No. No, she was far from excited.

Inside, she was frozen and afraid. Jasper gently touched her arm, trying to reassure inconspicuously. It didn't help. For, somewhere in that crowd, somewhere amongst the faceless mass, Joseph Waters waited for her.

She caught herself falter, trying to keep the smile in place.

'I'm ecstatic, Robert,' she managed brightly.

If he picked up on her anxiety then he did not seem to show it, watching the camera more than he was watching her reactions, a stack of small notes in his thick fingers.

'And not only are you presenting an award tonight, Rachel, but we have heard rumours that you are also performing?' He flashed his perfect white teeth at her again. The brilliance of them was almost as blinding as the flashbulbs of the cameras. 'Is that right?'

A shiver of premonition ran up her spine, the hairs rising on her forearms.

If it came to it, she may well be giving the performance of her life.

* * *

><p>'Get her out of there.'<p>

It had taken a moment to realise that the phone was buzzing in the pocket of his tuxedo and he had stepped deliberately into the shadow of the doorway to answer it.

'Santana?' He asked, whispering her name, a million different thoughts rushing through his head.

On the other end of the line, the Latina sounded hysterical, and again the damp tendrils of fear tightened their grip about him.

'Santana,' he repeated more firmly, 'are you alright?'

'We are in over our heads, Jasper,' she spoke more slowly, anxiety and horror thick in her voice, 'we are in over our heads… Get her out of there. Get _Rachel_ out of there…'

He took a breath, his eyes drawn automatically to the small brunette as she navigated the reporters on the red carpet in the beautiful cream satin ball-gown that Kurt had acquired for her.

'We've come too far to do that, San,' he replied quietly.

'Get her out of there,' Santana's voice was becoming firmer, her breaths shallow and fast, but the tone was unyielding.

'I'm not going to let her out of my sight,' he stated. He knew as surely as they did that if they lost their nerve then it would end in disaster, it would end in disaster for all of them.

'I'm not kidding, Jasp…' Santana's voice was tight, 'he has left the apartment. And he will kill her... If he finds her there, if he gets her alone, then he will _kill_ her. Get her out of there. Please. Just get her out of there.'

* * *

><p>There were five of them, five of them with bodies like bouncers; tall and wide and thick with muscle. Beside them, Quinn felt small and fragile, with the uneasy sense that each man may be able to snap her thin neck with just one flick of his hand.<p>

She leant against the brick wall as the largest of them, with remarkable dexterity, opened one of the side doors to the theatre. Three of the others were already inside; plain clothes, though each carried their NYPD badge within their dark jackets, their firearms carefully out of sight.

Thompson's narrowed eyes flicked to her again as they stepped through the arch of the door.

'You need to stay out of sight,' he stated.

'I will,' she assured him.

Thompson didn't trust her; she could see that in the way that he watched her, in the careful way that he looked at her from the corner of his eye. In fairness, Quinn didn't trust him either. A corrupt cop who organised killings for the mob was never going to be someone high on her list of trustworthy persons. She had shown him her hand of cards when she had contacted him with the "Gabriel" passcodes; he knew that she had something on him, and she suspected that the only reason that he had not killed her already was that she had something that he wanted; that she may be able to lead him to Joseph Waters.

'If he comes here, as you say he will…'

The police radio had already announced Waters' bloody escape from his apartment; two policemen found dead at the scene. The announcement had given Quinn credibility, the kind that is edged with intense suspicion, and after that the police had blocked further transmissions. A city-wide manhunt had been launched and the media was already starting to incite panic around the districts of New York.

'He will,' Quinn replied with certainty.

Rachel's plan had been as transparent to her as the glass in a window, and as simple as it was, she knew in her gut that it would work.

'If he comes here… he is as good as dead.'

* * *

><p>Backstage the narrow corridors were busy, crammed with performers pushing past each other. There was the crimson red of the flamenco dancers as they strapped on their shoes, perfectly proportioned men in neatly pressed sailors' uniforms adjusting their microphones… Roy snaked around them unobtrusively, the familiar weight of the handgun reassuring in its place against his chest.<p>

The smell of stage make-up was thick in the air, each face decorated in garish colours. Already the orchestra was warming up in the pit, their jarring scales escalating the anticipation backstage as the rising noise of the audience started to filter through.

'_Five minutes!'_

The warning call rang out along the corridors and the performers pushed forwards to edge themselves into the wings.

'_Five minutes, people!'_

And in amongst the bustling crowd, the shadow of a man caught Roy's eye.

He froze, in his position against the wall, frowning. His fingers twitched. The man was not Joseph Waters, but indeed, someone who was almost as deadly and whose presence was just as concerning… for he was one of the Five. The five enforcers that Mickey had once used to hunt down his enemies within New York City; one of the men who had eventually betrayed them the night that Johnny Quinn had died. The Five had fed them to the Lucchese, they had set them up to have them killed.

The broad man was an omen; a terrible omen that caused nausea to rise up within him.

The music struck up, powerful major chords booming through the corridors like the blood pulsating around the vessels of a living creature. Roy felt the music stir in him, and, trusting the instincts that had kept him alive for so long, he closed his fingers around his handgun, pulling it subtly from the holster. With a steely expression, he crept forwards, moving on silent footsteps along the corridor behind the corrupt cop.

* * *

><p>Quinn had climbed the narrow stairs quietly, each footfall gentle against the wood. The atmosphere rose up from the stage below like the blue smoke from a fierce fire and as she looked out beyond the mesmerising rainbow of colours on the stage, far below, she could capture the entranced faces of the audience. The magic was spun, of light and sound, and every colour seemed to dance across the set, reflected garishly upon those watching it. Their eyes were wide and glassy, hypnotised by the performance.<p>

Dancers twirled across the stage, their skirts sweeping out like the petals of flowers in bloom.

From far above, she felt like an outsider, untouched by the spell… Quinn edged towards the balcony's rail, at the highest point of the rafters. It was narrow, so narrow that she had to slip in sideways. Her fingers glanced across the heavy fabric of the blackout curtain, slipping silently to a point where she could look out at most of the stage and the parallel rows of the stalls seats. Her eyes sought one face amid the crowd, and when she had found her, her gaze did not waver.

Quinn's fingers closed around the rail of the balcony, making an imprint in the thick dust that coated it. No one had been up here for many years. As Quinn watched, her eyes never leaving Rachel's face, she felt that maybe she had been wrong… maybe she was the one entranced by the music and the lights, entranced in a way that had left her feeling lost in time, and in place... even in person.

For the changing light seemed to get faster, as the music sped ahead, tripping over itself as it gathered momentum. Circus themes and spinning wheels; the dancers whirling around the stage and the rig of lights and cameras dancing in tandem above.

Up in the rafters, Quinn watched it all. The different colours reflected on her too, as all the unexpected events had reflect on her, and strangely, with the changing of the lights so she felt herself change. Never before had she been so aware of the many faces that she wore, of the different people that she had been, those that she had become as life had torn her, kneaded her, shaped her, as it had pushed her onwards and pulled her back. She was all of them, and none, these faces, these people, these roles she had played… all the same and all so different.

For one second there was the Quinn from Cambodia, upon the rooftops and under the stars. And then there was the child on the stairs, listening to whispered words in the night. A Quinn that had watched her father execute a man; and the girl who had jumped from the burning house. The one who had held a gun, who had felt the heaviness of it in her hands. The cheerleader who had kissed Rachel in the shadows of the school auditorium. Stargazer lilies and whispered promises. The girl who had wanted to kill a man; then the girl who had refused. A child who grieved... The one who survived. The teen who had shyly made love. The woman who had run from the hospital in Queens that night with the sounds of gunshots ringing in her ears… She was everything and nothing; a kaleidoscope of faces, the changing faces of a person; so many choices, so many choices, right and wrong.

Quinn's fingers went to her neck, subconsciously searching for the small gold cross that was no longer there.

And now another choice.

The biggest choice.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, her eyes fixed, as they were, on the woman far below.

Somehow it felt like only yesterday that she had first kissed Rachel beneath the bleachers, the mosaic of patterned light upon her smooth skin. She had been so soft, and uncertain; they both had. They'd thought that they ruled the world; that they knew everything there was to know, about truth, and justice, and idealism… they had thought that there was nothing that could frighten or surprise them. Nothing at all.

Quinn leant back into the shadows, seeking the comfort that the darkness gave her.

But still the kaleidoscope turned; those patterns of all the people that she had once been dancing across her skin.

_His soul is black as the night_, Johnny had said of his father. Of _their_ father.

_I don't have his soul_.

The music changed. The applause was deafening and then the orchestra struck up again, a ballad this time. Something strangely familiar.

'I don't have his soul,' she repeated softly to herself, the words drowned out by the tendrils of music that seemed to wrap themselves around her.

Once she had been sure.

But now doubt had wormed its way into her thoughts. Her fingers tightened on the rail; the dancers speeding faster, the music rising louder. It was as though the coin was up in the air, spinning, and she wondered which way it was to fall.

* * *

><p><strong>Boston. Present. <strong>

The click of sharp heels against the cold floor signalled her approach; her personal assistant rising to her feet just as the door swung open to the office.

Letitia Lennox tossed back her perfect blonde hair, her jaw set at her usual arrogant angle as she let the door slam shut behind her. She wasn't a considerate person; she had learnt long ago that to be so would get her nowhere.

Her pace did not slow, not until her assistant thrust out her arm, holding the thick manila envelope out to block her path.

'It was couriered for you,' the girl stated.

Lennox raised an eyebrow, looking first at the offending package that had been placed in her way, and then, with only slightly less distaste, at her assistant. She went through three or four assistants per year, and had yet to remember this one's name.

'From?' she asked acidly.

'From New York,' the assistant replied, and then, as Lennox rolled her eyes, realised her mistake and quickly corrected it. 'From Chritiaan Barnard.'

Letitia's second eyebrow rose to join the first.

'Christiaan Barnard?' she echoed.

The assistant nodded emphatically.

'_The_ Christiaan Barnard?'

Lennox snatched the envelope from her hand, examining the writing on the front, before tearing it open. Of the many things that she was, foolhardy was not one of them, and something about receiving the letter bothered her, it sent an unusual spear of apprehension through her. Not least that it was sent theoretically by an idol who had been dead for many years.

She scanned the letter, her body becoming still, her breath shallow, and when she had finished reading, she found herself staring at the paper between her fingers.

'I…' she started, her eyes flicking once more across the page. For once, words failed her and her eyebrows drew together in a frown. Without another word, she strode into her office, shutting the door firmly behind her. She placed the unfolded letter on her desk before turning to the cabinet to pour herself a scotch.

The amber liquid swirled about the glass, the peaty smell of it rising up and stinging her nostrils.

For a moment, she just watched it, her own reflection distorted in the glass.

She'd had her suspicions about who had sent it to her before even opening the envelope. The sarcastic use of Christiaan Barnard's name, her idol from her younger, more idealistic years, would only be used by someone who knew her well enough to know that the barb would catch. It gave the writer away even before the handwriting did.

Lennox savoured the liquid for a thoughtful moment, before turning back to the letter on the desk. From almost anyone else she would ignore it. From almost anyone else, she would think it was melodramatic… ridiculous. But this wasn't from anyone else. It was from _her_.

She read the end of the letter again, the cynical sign-off sending a chill through her.

_I thank you in advance for your courage_, she had written. _Today, for the first time, I can see that you may have been right… Perhaps you knew me better than I thought. _

_I hope that this is the last time that you will find cause to be disappointed. _

Lennox exhaled softly, reading it slowly for the third time, trying to grasp the oblique meaning in the words.

'New York,' she murmured to herself.

She knocked back the rest of the scotch, whilst snatching up her bag from the desk and turning back towards the door to her office. She threw it open, the letter still in one hand.

'Cancel my appointments for tomorrow,' she ordered her assistant, even as she stuffed the letter into her handbag. 'And anything that I have to do later tonight.'

'What…er…' her assistant flustered, jumping to her feet to follow her as she strode out of the door to the office. 'What do I tell them?'

Lennox flipped her hair back, her heels once more clicking against the stone tiles.

'That I'm out of town.'

* * *

><p>Jasper's hand was warm around hers, and Rachel felt that it were the only thing that was anchoring her to the earth. Her heart was racing within her chest and across from the opposite wing she could see the flash of Martin's teeth as he smiled in anticipation.<p>

A guest host was finishing the award for best choreography and she had been given her last cue.

'I'm frightened,' she whispered, her knuckles turning white as she held onto his hand. 'He's here… he's here, and I'm frightened, Jasper.'

He pulled her closer to him, allowing her to press her cheek against the soft fabric of the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. Her frame felt so small in his arms and he could hear Santana's desperate warning echoing in his ears.

'I'll be right here,' he promised as the first notes of the familiar, haunting tune began to play once more. 'I'll be right here…'

Rachel pulled herself away, trembling as finely as the skeleton of a leaf on an autumn day.

'I know you will be,' she whispered, looking seriously into his eyes. Her teeth worried her lower lip between them. 'I won't… I won't blame you… I won't blame you if things go wrong… If you can't… protect me.'

* * *

><p>It was anxiety that was twisting within Quinn as she watched the stage. Rachel had disappeared from the crowd over ten minutes before and, though she could make out Jasper's tall frame at her side, Quinn's unease grew with each passing moment.<p>

Apprehension tightened every muscle in her body, but as the orchestra started up again she felt a wave of recognition sweep through her in response to the music. The chords were familiar, not from something she had heard recently, but from somewhere far back in the past. Her fingers tightened around the rail once more as the man's rich baritone climbed over the first few bars.

The words… she knew them, as though her soul were singing in synchrony with him. It was a memory that had not come to her for many years… something that would have faded into the background with all the other memories if the first chords of the music hadn't conjured it up so vividly. The song had been special to her at the time… she had never told Rachel, afraid that she would seem weak and needy, but she had felt that it were somehow important… that in practicing it together, in the quiet of Rachel's bedroom, Quinn had been making a promise, weaving a spell of her own against the outside forces of the world. Of course, she had only been seventeen. College had loomed ahead of them; NYADA, or Yale, and her mother's disapproval had left her in a state of constant unease. Weeks later, Rachel had performed it on-stage with Blaine, and Quinn had been just another backing singer; but she had smiled as she sang, she knew the truth. It was her promise. The promise that had echoed on, and on through the years, another thread in the tapestry of them, so far back that she had almost forgotten it.

'Rachel,' she whispered, as the woman's voice rose above the music of the orchestra.

The audience burst into an enthusiastic applause as the popular brunette emerged from the wings, their eager anticipation of her arrival, particularly with this song, sending excited titters among them. Rachel smiled brightly, gliding forwards across the set towards her partner. Quinn leant forwards, the hairs across her arms rising. The lights from the production glowed off her face, but her eyes were glued to the singer below as her voice rose enchantingly up to her. Her voice was older, mature and schooled, but it felt the same… it felt the same; as though Rachel were still just singing to her, alone, in the bedroom of their childhood. That if they closed their eyes, they would be back there once again.

'Rachel Berry,' the name floated off her lips, a promise that she had never forgotten. It brought tears to the edges of her eyes, settling the nerves within her.

'Rachel Berry.'

* * *

><p>Roy had followed the enforcer quickly, careful to keep his distance in the shadows of the corridor. The man had met with another, a member of the same vicious pack. Up ahead of him, the two men had not noticed that they too were being hunted. Each movement was deliberate as he moved after them, the weapon ready in his hand, his finger on the trigger.<p>

They turned a sharp corner, out of sight, and he swiftly followed, pressing his back against the wall as he carefully looked around it. It was as he turned that the tall, broad figure of Joseph Waters emerged from the shadows. Waters' movements were quick and deliberate, slashing open the first man's throat before he even had time to make a sound. The spray of blood splashed across the wall as he fell, but Waters was already onto his second victim, their bodies pressed close together as he wrestled the knife onto him at close quarters. He stabbed him with sharp, jabbing movements, animalistic in his butchering, their faces close.

Roy raised the gun, three rounds sounding out before he had fully turned the corner. The movement of his arm had been enough to alert the killer to his presence and he had shifted his weight, the bullets burying themselves in the stabbed man's thick body. As quickly as he had moved, Waters had turned to run, sweeping out of the corridor in a second, Roy firing after him. Each shot went wide, the red brick of the walls spitting as the bullets buried themselves within.

Roy's eyes hardened as he quickened his pace to run after the taller man, stepping over the bodies that now crowded the corridor. His heart starting to race, as he chased the man that he had wanted to kill since the night that Johnny had died.

* * *

><p>The faces of the audience were dark against the bright stage-lights and Rachel strained to keep the smile on her face. It took all of her strength not to let her voice falter, the emotion tightening around the words as she sang. She was terrified, and somehow, as she came to the chorus, she was elated, brought up on the crest of the song. The morbid thought had come to her that this may be the very last performance of her life, the last song to sing as the world balanced on the edge of a knife… but she would be damned if Rachel Berry wasn't going to give them the performance of her life, her lungs burning from the effort of keeping her emotions in check.<p>

Martin looked over to her theatrically as their voices intertwined. She felt the tears wet against her cheeks; she hadn't even realised that she had been crying until that moment. Baz Luhrmann's masterpiece had come out when she was only seven years old and it had taken her almost a year to persuade her parents to allow her to watch the DVD with them, her Daddy's hands covering her eyes through half the scenes. The tragedy of the love story had been so painfully romantic that she had insisted that they rewrite the ending each and every time they watched it, hoping that the next time would be different, that Santine would live and the music would go on and on. But even at that young and optimistic age, she had come to realise that there was a hopelessness to trying so hard to change the inevitable. It was nearly ten years later that she had finally sung the haunting song herself... and it still gave her chills, even now, over ten years further on.

As the song rose to its climax, the orchestra's sinister voice melted with theirs, and the sharp, sudden sound of gunshots cut through the music. Rachel stopped abruptly, her hands flying up to her chest in surprise and her eyes cut straight to the wing, to where Jasper stood, watching. His face was pale, reflecting hers as another round of gunshots rang out into the night. He ran out onto the stage, reaching her just as the theatre was suddenly plunged into complete darkness.

The orchestra trailed off, suddenly blind to their music and direction, the audience shocked to silence. Jasper's arm wrapped around her narrow shoulders as she looked up at the dark expanse above, listening carefully for movement backstage.

'He's cut the electricity,' she whispered.

Jasper's body was tense against her own.

'Someone has,' he agreed quietly, as the noise from the audience began to rise.

* * *

><p>As the hall was plunged into sudden darkness, Quinn found herself leaning out, over the rail, searching the black depths for any sign of Rachel below. The startled shock of the gunshots and then the blackout had stunned the crowd to silence, but the peace was short lived, as a general rumble of discontent grew to a panicked cacophony.<p>

Quinn could not hear it; all that she could hear was the rush of blood through the vessels in her ears. Strangely, where once, her heart would have raced, instead, now, it slowed as she was struck with the cold certainty of what she needed to do. For all the different faces of Quinn Fabray faded away with the lights, and in the shadows emerged the one that was at her core, this one that anchored her so darkly to the world. Hazel eyes dilated in the dim light as she searched hopelessly for the woman below on the stage, seeing nothing but the blackness that had swallowed her.

Waters may be dead, or he may be alive, but either way, Quinn knew that she needed to get to Rachel. To get her out of there, away from all the danger that lingered.

It was without conscious thought that she turned, swiftly edging down the narrow stairs on quick and silent feet. She had grown used to the darkness in the years that she had spent in Cambodia, within the concrete walls of the hospital during those nights that the electricity failed.

Apprehension was hot across her skin, a strange sixth sense for the danger that hung in the air. It was thick in her lungs.

Her fingertips brushed against the wall, feeling the reassuring cool of it. Out on the stage, the host had started to make announcements to the crowd, shouting to be heard above them, but despite the noise front-of-house, the atmosphere backstage was muted.

The dim green emergency lights illuminated pools under the exit doors.

She stepped around them, as though the light itself may burn her, and continued her steady course through the backstage maze. It was at the corridor's darkest point that her foot knocked into something solid. The dull thud of it made her catch her breath, the softness of flesh, the firmness of bone. The heavy, coppery smell hit her nostrils; it was a smell that Quinn knew all too well.

She crouched, her hand seeking his thick neck in the darkness, pressing deep to find his carotid.

The blood that coated her fingers was still warm, the skin cooling beneath; pulseless and dead.

She pressed her back against the wall of the corridor, pulling her bloody fingers away from the gaping slash in his neck. As her eyes adjusted, she recognised the thick outline of his body, the broad shoulders, limbs splayed awkwardly where he fell. The whites of his eyes gleamed.

Beyond him, the outline of what she imagined was another man lay motionless as well.

Quinn sucked in her breath.

Death and violence were heavy in the air, sobering her enough to think. Around her the atmosphere seemed to bristle, anticipation rising on her skin with the feeling that she was being watched, that he was out there… waiting.

She reached out tentatively, searching blindly in the darkness, and there it was, at the floor near an outstretched arm. She hesitated for only a second before her fingers closed around the cool dark grip of the gun.

She clicked off the safety catch, and prepared herself for the end.

* * *

><p>His eyesight was not what it once had been and the darkness was dense in the windowless corridors. Roy pressed himself flush against the wall, the gun raised and ready in his hand. Waters had always favoured knives; the razor edge that had sliced his own flesh more than once, the deadly wounds that Waters had inflicted on Johnny.<p>

He moved forwards swiftly, his movements sharp and focussed.

Still, the guilt was bitter in his mouth; guilt for the boy that he had failed to protect, Mickey's son, Quinn's brother.

He swung to the other side, the green illumination from one of the emergency lights coming into view. It was at the point where the corridor widened into a space almost big enough to be considered a room. He raised the gun cautiously, stepping further in, and suddenly, from the darkness a shadow sprung forwards.

His finger tightened around the trigger, the gunshot sharp and loud but the bullet off-centre.

Waters' thicker, bigger body crashed into his, throwing him back forcefully against the brick of the wall. The air was knocked out of Roy's lungs by the force of the impact.

'I know you.'

Waters' words were a harsh whisper, the younger man's bigger hand closing around his wrist and smashing it back against the wall, once, twice, until Roy's grip loosened from the pain and the gun fell to the floor from his fingers.

The green of the lighting glanced off the sallow cheeks and gave them a sickly glow, but the sockets of his eyes remained dark.

'The bodyguard,' Waters snarled, 'right?'

He smashed Roy back against the wall once again, his skull bouncing forcefully off the bricks. It felt as though there was an explosion at the back of his head, the pain surging forwards as black spots gathered behind his eyes.

'Not much of a bodyguard.'

He repeated the action, throwing him back once more against the unforgiving wall.

He could feel the younger man's body twist, and even as he knew that he was about to lose consciousness, he knew also that the subtle shift in weight pre-empted attack, that in a moment Waters' knife would be buried deep between his own ribs. He tried in vain to twist away, to lever himself off the wall and tip the balance of power, but it was too late.

Yet, in the split second that he expected the blow to come, something unusual happened instead.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, another body seemed to barrel into Waters own, catching him off guard as he swung his arm back. The large man, stumbled backwards, regaining his footing in a heartbeat.

While Roy struggled to keep his eyes open, the blood at the back of his head was seeping through the matt of his hair, and as he slid down the bricks of the wall, crumpling on the floor below. He could see the knife as it gleamed like a silver beam, flashing in its arc as it sliced towards Quinn's neck.

* * *

><p>Waters had regained his footing faster than she had, her lighter body moving further with the momentum of her attack. As he slashed at her neck, she stumbled forwards, the razor edge of the knife glancing against the pale skin of her cheekbone instead of that overlying her carotid.<p>

The sting of it as the skin parted beneath surged the adrenaline within her.

He was fast, and large, launching himself forwards.

But Quinn was faster. The first shot that rang out exploded amid the ropey muscles and bones of his forearm, just above the inked cross at his wrist. At the close proximity of him, she could see the tissues as they seemed to shatter, and the silver gleam of the blade flashed at her, hovering mid-air, just as the second bullet buried itself within the left upper wall of his chest.

Even in the dim lighting, Quinn could see the surprise that flickered across his face, and for a moment he seemed frozen, as though his body were trying to catch up with the events that had occurred so unexpectedly. In another heartbeat, he stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling awkwardly to the ground.

Equally, she was frozen too; her mind searching aimlessly for means by which to escape the horror of her own actions. The clavicle. The ribs, the intercostals between. Cartilagenous rings and bronchi. Pulmonary vasculature, delicately twisting themselves around the alveoli. The beautiful, and fragile, fibres of a person.

The dull thud as he hit the ground.

Fifty-percent chance of survival. Fifty-percent chance of death. Heads, you win; tails you lose.

Quinn swallowed thickly. Her skin felt cold and numb as she stepped forwards, the slow and steady rate of her heart beating heavily within her chest. Even in the dim lighting she could make out black inkblot of blood that spread out from the star-shaped wound. He looked up at her from where he lay; recognition flickering in his eyes.

Quinn took a breath.

The wheel was turning once again, and she could not stand passively by anymore. It was for all of them, she would argue, not just those in his past, but for the lives that people had yet to live; for Carlos, and Rachel, and Santana... For Brittany. For Jasper… And many more. Many, many more. She raised the gun, her arm steady. And not least, in the end, it was for the soul that was Quinn herself.

She squeezed the trigger.

The bullet struck him between the eyes, the bone shattering from the impact across the cold, dark floor.

She stared down at him for a long time, the image burning into her memory; knowing that she had just killed the most fundamental parts of herself as well.

* * *

><p>The sound of gunshots cut through the noise from the crowd, and again a fearful hush descended. It was unmistakable this time. Rachel's hand was tangled within Jasper's shirt and he tensed, holding her close to him. In the darkness he could smell the sweet vanilla of her shampoo, the smell of it tickling his nose.<p>

'Do you think…' she started to whisper when a third gunshot echoed after the first two. Deliberate and somehow final.

Rachel was trembling within the circle of his arms.

He could make out her eyes in the darkness, their faces so close together. There was a terrible violence that was unfolding behind the stage and he wanted to protect her from it. He edged them further down into the small corner that they had been sheltering against.

'Do you think it's Roy?' she asked, as the crowd started to panic, the mass of them pressing towards the exits, the sharp beam of the ushers' flashlights cutting through the darkness.

Jasper felt the frown deepen between his eyebrows.

'I think that we need to get you out of here,' he replied, 'as soon as we can.'

* * *

><p>When Thompson emerged from the dark mouth of the corridor, Quinn's body was outlined by the glow of the lights. She was as still as a statue, the gun still trained on Waters' shattered skull. He could feel the fine trembling of her as he eased the weapon from her hand, but she didn't see him, didn't even blink.<p>

'He's dead,' he murmured to her, trying to ease her from the thick silence of her muted horror.

He knew from experience that they didn't have much time; the corridors were scattered with bodies and he needed to finish this before law enforcement swarmed into the building. He took a cloth from his jacket, carefully wiping down the gun with it as he watched her.

Waters was dead, and another body was slumped by the wall.

The noise of the gunshot made the silence that followed it seem so deep and empty.

He clicked on the safety catch and holstered the gun. His eyes had not left her, stepping around the body and the spreading pool of blood at his feet, careful not to touch it.

She shook her head, letting her hand drop to her side. Thompson allowed himself a small smile.

Waters was dead, as the Lucchese had wished. His confessions… his secrets, dying with him.

He crouched down by the body, shifting his gaze to the bloody blade that rested by the man's outstretched hand. With the cloth, he carefully pried it from the slackened fingers, picking it up.

'The first time is always the worst,' he said softly, and there was a flicker of expression across her face as though, slowly, she were emerging again from the black depths of the water. 'It gets easier. Somehow.'

He straightened, his grip tightening in the darkness.

Thompson had known her from the first time that he had seen her on the bridge; the hazel eyes and steady stare had betrayed her origins instantly, and it was only for a second that he had faltered in his judgement of her. There was the reflection of Mickey Quinn in the very way that she was standing now.

He stepped around her, reaching out to rest his hand on her shoulder. Another flicker of movement as she battled against her catatonic state.

The sound of his words were muffled to her ears, for all she could hear was silence. A deep and cold silence that felt as though it were stretching through her, through the hollow expanses of her soul. But there… there, somewhere, in the distance, she could hear a voice. The soft and gentle timbre of Rachel's voice, like honey and smoke as it came to her, the gentle, lilting melodies of a summertime that had never lasted long enough. Calling her forwards, or back. She didn't know.

His hand tightened on her shoulder, his body twisted back.

She knew what he was about to do the moment before he did it; but all fear was gone from her, it had evaporated into the air the moment that she had pulled the trigger. She twisted away from him, but it was too late. The tip of the knife pierced her skin, the violence of the movement sharp as the blade cut up under her ribs, parting the tissues so easily.

'I can't let you live,' he whispered, his lips close to her ear as he held her firmly in place, 'not now that you know who I am.'

He pulled the bloody blade out with a jerk, before plunging it in again to the hilt, releasing his grip on her and letting her fall.

It didn't really register as pain. Not even as she crumpled to the hard surface of the cold floor. Sweat broke out against her skin and the green glow of the dark room blurred before her. For Rachel's gentle voice was growing stronger in her ears, the melody calling to her, and as Quinn closed her eyes on that bloody chamber, on the dark room that was filled with silence and death and violence, she felt the warmth of the sunshine again on her skin, as though it were emerging from behind a cloud.

She didn't hear the last gunshot ring out. She didn't see Thompson fall to the floor as well. Because, for Quinn Fabray, it was too late, and there was a place beyond the horror of the present that was waiting for her.

* * *

><p>The gun was cold in Roy's hand, the pain exploding within his skull with every movement that he made.<p>

Thompson had crumpled to the floor, as though he had been suspended by one long invisible string that Roy had cut the moment that he had pulled the trigger. He would never re-awaken.

The bile rose in his throat, the green light dancing across the bodies on the floor and he felt the anguish burn again within him. Just like with her brother, Roy had seen the knife too late. He had battled his way to consciousness, only to see Quinn stand frozen, with Thompson behind her. He had seen the enforcer's body twist, and watched her twist away as the knife had sunk in.

He fumbled for the cellphone in his pocket, trying to find the strength to move, to push himself up from the floor, his body protesting to every movement. His eyes scrutinised the bodies as he pushed himself up, the violent carnage at his feet.

'It's over…' he said finally, when Jasper's voice came onto the other end of the line. His throat was dry, the words cracking. 'It's over... is Rachel with you?'

'Of course.'

Roy blinked as he looked down at her; Quinn was pale, each breath shallow and ragged. He bent down, gently brushing the blonde hair back from her face.

'Quinn's here,' he said hollowly. 'She's hurt… badly hurt…'

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Roy swallowed. He knew the outcome for this; he had seen it once, years before when Johnny had been the one struggling to breathe.

'Bring Rachel backstage… she needs to be with her. She needs to be with her when…' he cut himself off, looking up at the emergency exit sign that flickered above the door. For she shouldn't die alone, not like this.

'Backstage left,' he murmured, 'in the anteroom up the flight of stairs.'

* * *

><p>At the top of the stairs, Jasper flung out his arm to block her view, but Rachel was too quick for him. The anguished cry that ripped itself from her throat tore at his soul and she pushed past him to the blonde's side, mindless of the blood that seeped into the soft fabrics of her dress.<p>

'Quinn…' She was gathering the blonde's limp body towards her, the doctor's torso shuddering with every shallow breath, 'Quinn. Baby… please. Please… Wake up, baby. It's over… it's all over…'

Rachel's hands were slick with blood, warm and soaking through her dress. She held the blonde's body close to her own, her tears hot against her cheeks as she kissed the pale skin of her forehead.

'It's me, baby… I'm here,' she whispered against the blonde hair, 'it's you and me, darling. Always… always.'

Jasper's hand had covered his mouth, the nausea rising up at the aftermath of all the violence. He had never seen so much blood, never seen a skull shattered like the one before him. He felt as though he was going to vomit.

The shock of seeing Quinn like that… he felt numb. Cold and numb; frozen.

'You have to go,' he stated, trying to swallow down the bile, as he grabbed Roy's attention, 'you have to get out of here. Before the police arrive.'

But the man just shook his head, stepping forward to crouch down to Thompson's dead body.

'Not this time,' he replied softly, removing the corrupt cop's gun and, after wiping his own one clean of finger prints, dropping them both into the pool of congealing blood that had swelled across the floor.

He straightened; his eyes on Rachel as she rocked Quinn's body back and forth in her arms, whispering soft words into her hair. The blonde's skin seemed to glow in the faint light, unnaturally bright.

'Do me one thing,' Roy said after a moment, holding out his hand. 'Get rid of this.'

Jasper's fingers closed around the cellphone and he looked at it blankly.

'Destroy it,' the older man said quietly. 'Erase anything that connects us.'

Beyond the walls, the sounds of sirens were rising above the noise from the audience within the theatre. Jasper felt the hairs on the back of his arms rise with them.

'Forget me.' Roy met his eyes, and there was something there, a resignation, that Jasper couldn't quite read. 'Forget everything that we planned… everything that has happened here tonight.'

Jasper looked into the older man's eyes and nodded slowly.

He slipped the cellphone into his pocket, as Roy slowly turned away. Moving towards one of the dark corridors and glancing back over his shoulder only once, his eyes resting on the pale body that lay in Rachel's arms.

The last; the very last of them.

Lucy.

Long ago, he had helped pick the name, when he had been a younger man and Judy Fabray had still been a part of their lives... But Judy had been dead for many years, and, now, so was Michael. Those times had faded into the past, and with them, he knew that he should also start to fade away.

He slipped back into the shadows, leaving them to wait the long moments for the police and paramedics to finally arrive.

* * *

><p>News crews and police helicopters were circling overhead, the deep thrum of them loud in the night sky. Each breath in Santana's lungs seemed to burn as she shoved her way through the crowd, knocking people out of the way as she pushed herself towards the police barriers. Some of them were fans, she imagined, people who had stayed transfixed in horror after the night had taken such a dark turn, and now, as one, the crowd seemed to be surging towards the entrance of the theatre. Santana cut her way through them, fear and nausea rising.<p>

Ambulances were lined up along the street, their lights flashing across the crowd in muted anticipation.

In the distance, she could see a small group burst through the doors. A gurney. Paramedics. Glimpses of figures surrounded by others. The morbid excitement of the crowd pressed forwards, flashbulbs bright as the shutters snapped.

'It's Rachel Berry… Rachel Berry….'

The name seemed to move through the crowd like a wave, an almost organic thing that rose up with Santana's nausea. Her heart rate sped, but as she pushed forwards for a better look, she could see her friend standing between the paramedics, the cream satin of her dress streaked violently with blood. Rachel's skin was pale, her face contorted in an anguish that cut Santana to the core.

The gurney moved swiftly passed, gone in a second, but Santana was frozen with the image that she had glimpsed. That of blonde hair beneath the paramedic's gloved hands.

As the sirens came on, another gurney appeared, but for this one there was no haste. A hush descended upon the crowd as the body bag was wheeled out. One, followed by another… and another… and another…

The slow procession of the dead brought Santana's hands to her chest, clasping them together. How many were there? How many more?

Was this the price? The price for the plan that they had constructed so naively? Was this the price that you had to pay, for wishing a man dead? For plotting and planning it?

She felt frozen to the spot, her knuckles white as she tightened her grip on herself. So naïve she had been to think that this would work; so naïve she had been to think that she could play the puppet master, that the world would turn to the tune that she played.

As the theatre doors closed behind the last of the bodies, Santana pressed her eyes shut, offering up a prayer, for anyone who could hear. A prayer that had no words, no words anymore, but the burning ache of silence. A silence that comes in the aftermath, when all the guns are quiet and all the cries have faded away.

* * *

><p>Thank you for readig - please review.<p> 


	31. Where dreaming ends

**Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter and sorry for the slight delay with releasing this one. **

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 31 - Where dreaming ends<span>

Beyond the window, the rain fell heavily upon the city. Rachel's eyes, deep and dark in her reflection, watched the silver light blur together. Her mind was elsewhere as she waited; jumping haphazardly through images of a past that was half-memory and half-imagination. Sometimes the sky was turquoise, sometime crimson, the blonde turning towards her, and turning away… and she grasped for them, these memories of Quinn that now seemed to be slipping from her, unravelling beneath her desperation.

The second hand of the clock on the wall ticked steadily on and the atmosphere in the room thick. Rachel by the window, Santana in a chair and Jasper just standing, frozen, as surely as a figure from Pompei; each of them isolated, and bound too, forever bound together.

The door to the waiting room swung open suddenly, and in the frame of light Kurt looked as though he had battled his way through from hell to reach them.

'Oh Rach…' he exclaimed mutedly, shaking the rain from his hair as the eyes of the three occupants cut to him. Rachel froze, her dark eyes staring at him with no trace of recognition. He stared back, shock evident on his face, before he allowed his eyes to fall over the ruined ball-gown; the stark contrast of the satin against the darkened crimson inkblots of blood. His eyes returned to hers and she turned away, rejecting the pity that she could feel from him. She didn't need pity. Not now.

'I'm sorry that it took me so long,' he said softly, letting the door close behind him hesitantly. His eyes followed her as she stalked towards the window, her hand reaching out to grasp the sill, 'I had to fight to get passed the news crews and the police barriers…'

She made no move to suggest that she had even heard him and he knew better than to push her. Kurt had known Rachel Berry a long, long time. He sighed, leaning back against the door as it shut with a final click.

'Have they… said anything?'

His eyes turned to Santana who was curled solemnly on a chair in the corner. Her jet eyes met his, sparkling with unshed tears and red-rimmed; the determination that he had always associated with her seemed painfully hopeless now.

Rachel pressed her fingertips against the cold glass of the window, staring out at the blurring of the city lights. Her reflection was ghostly against the lashings of the rain, for the clouds that had been gathering all day had finally reached their bursting point and the violence of the heavy rain beat down upon the city.

'She's in the operating theatre,' Jasper's voice was quiet.

Rachel's fingers tightened against the sill of the window.

'They haven't told us anything,' Santana whispered. 'Not yet.'

But Rachel could still feel the warmth of Quinn's blood on her hands, of the terrifying shuddering of each breath. She held onto the horror of it; for it may be all that she had left of her.

Behind her, their voices merged together and faded away, and all Rachel could see was her own face against the rain, and over her shoulder she could swear that the hazel eyes were on her, Quinn's lips at her ear, whispering promises over and over and over again. Promises of a future that she had only glimpsed, that blurred beyond the glass... and the harder that she tried to grasp on to her, the further she seemed to slip away.

…_with all my heart_, the whispered words came, husky with the heaviness of the night, _and all my soul…_

Rachel's lips moved wordlessly, whispering them back, waiting as the minutes turned into hours, and praying that the mirage behind her would not fade away.

_I'll never let you go. _

_I'll never let you go again. _

* * *

><p>The opening of the door held a heavy anxiety, the guillotine that waited to fall on them.<p>

Santana stiffened, her hand tightening around Kurt's, but as the woman appeared, so Santana found herself on her feet, fear and outrage and confusion blending together in a complicated matrix of unmanageable emotion.

'Lennox.'

The lines of the woman's face seemed deeper in the harsh lighting of the waiting room, her perfect blonde hair pulled back under the theatre cap. Piercing eyes met Santana's as she folded her arms across the pale blue of her scrub top. The surgeon struggled with an uncharacteristic uncertainty, perplexed by the sequence of events that had led her here this night.

'Lopez,' Lennox replied softly, in a gentler tone than Santana had ever heard her use. At the name, Rachel turned from the window, her eyes falling on the woman who had once been Quinn's mentor and tormentor; a woman that she had never met, and yet had heard so much about. The theatre scrubs diminished her somehow, the terrible doubt that hung about her in the incandescent glow.

Rachel took a step towards her and then faltered, seeing the older woman swallow.

'Don't.'

Rachel's voice was sharp in the heavy silence, drawing the others eyes to her, 'don't you dare! Don't tell me that she's… don't tell me…'

Rachel choked against her own words, against the emotion that was thick in her throat, and Jasper stood, taking a step towards her before stopping helplessly out of arms reach. Rachel didn't want comfort, he knew, she didn't want pity… she wanted Quinn, only Quinn.

'She's not dead,' the surgeon stated, her voice wavering even with her characteristic bluntness, 'not yet.'

Rachel visibly deflated at her words, as though she were a string taut with anxiety before going slack, as though every minute that Quinn battled to live, Rachel was battling with her. The surgeon's eyes fell to Santana, the only one of the group that she knew, her voice gathering certainty as she spoke.

'She's fighting,' the surgeon stated steadily, 'they're still on bypass, and it's been stormy… but she's fighting.'

Santana tightened her arms across her chest, feeling cold as she imagined Quinn's body lying supine on the operating table, her chest cracked open and vulnerable, as it welled up with blood. She was balanced on the edge of a knife; and at any moment she may slip, at any moment she may fall, and die.

'Why are you here?' she asked, her eyes haunted by the images conjured up in her mind. 'Why are you… you…'

The surgeon pulled at the mask from where it hung about her neck, snapping the fragile ties.

'I was in New York,' she stated, an unusual inflection in her tone as she leant back against the door to the waiting room, 'on other business… McAllister called me when the ambulance arrived - he knew Fabray was one of mine…'

Kurt's brows had drawn together as he echoed her words in confusion, 'one of yours?'

Lennox's sharp eyes cut into him.

'She may have rejected everything that I offered her,' she replied darkly, 'she may have disappointed me at every turn… but she will always be my protégé. She had so much promise, once. So much wasted promise.'

The woman exhaled sharply, her eyes drifting to the window, to the downpour beyond.

Rachel felt the tears sting at her eyes, and Jasper's taller, harder body was behind her. She felt a cold anger bubble through her, tingling on her skin.

'Shouldn't you be operating?' she demanded, 'you're the best. The best. Why aren't you with her? Why aren't you operating?'

Lennox folded her arms across her chest, looking at Rachel now. Really looking at her, with a sympathetic recognition.

'I can't be objective with Quinn,' she replied with a humbleness that Rachel hated her for. 'I came to tell you… to warn you… that you need to prepare yourselves. I'm sorry… but you need to prepare yourselves for the worst. I have seen a thousand of these before.'

Her eyes met Rachel's first and then drifted back to Santana's. 'You need to prepare yourselves.'

* * *

><p>The dream world faded away; a landscape that receded rapidly into the unknown distance. He did not know what had woken him from his sleep, but awaken he did, and he was suddenly and certainly wide-awake, a sweat of anxiety clammy against his skin, with no hint of tiredness. There was a burning in his chest, a tightening within his guts that had urged him awake. The twisting of sickness beneath his skin.<p>

Carlos slipped quietly from between the sheets of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor as the iciness of the air swept across his fevered skin. The glow of the nightlight in the corner of the room cast long shadows along the walls, things of nightmares rather than dreams. They were unmoving, but even their stillness unnerved him. He swallowed against the uncertainty that made his limbs feel so heavy, brushing at the beaded sweat across his brow. He was hesitant to reach out to the handle of the door, suspicious of the night-time world that had pulled him from his dreams.

Beyond the door he could hear the faint cadence of his mother's voice; the heart-wrenching sound of her crying. It chilled him more than the cool of the night air.

Carlos pushed at the door, his small, nail-bitten fingers reaching for the cross at his neck; the small gold cross that felt as though it were burning into his bare skin.

'San… Santana…'

His eyes narrowed as he stepped hesitantly through. His mother's voice so broken.

She had her back to him, her blonde hair glowing golden in the faint light cast by the remains of the embers in the fireplace. It curled down her spine and across her shoulders like a snake. She had folded her long legs beneath her, and the faint shaking of her gently sloping shoulders caught his suspicious attention. She held the old phone to her ear, cradling it with both hands as though it required all her strength to support it.

Carlos paused, instinctively listening rather than drawing attention to himself.

'Have you seen her?'

The question was tight and quiet, so much so that Carlos strained to hear it.

'Yes…' Brittany swallowed a sob, 'yes, of course… Rachel should be with her.'

His fingers tightened their grip. His mother's tears churned the uneasiness within him.

With a frown etching itself between his eyebrows, Carlos took another step forwards, the creak of the floorboard beneath his foot alerting his mother to his presence. She turned quickly, swiping at the tear tracks that glistened on her cheeks. The bright blue of her eyes told him more than words ever could and he felt himself hesitate before crossing the distance between them. It felt as though the adult world, that strange and sharp place, was cradled to her ear, and Carlos would rather retreat out to the snow than push the boundaries into the world that he was not yet ready for.

'I've… I've got to go, San,' his mother spoke quickly through the tears. Carlos met her gaze with a frown, for she looked as alarmed by his nearness as he was. 'Carlos is awake… Yes. Yes… of course.'

She covered her mouth with a hand, as though trying to catch the sob that emerged. She took a shuddering breath, turning away from him.

'I love you, San,' she breathed, before repeating herself more firmly, 'I love you. I never want to lose you… please... Never… We'll be there soon.'

Carlos felt his belly twist again as she hung up the phone. She paused a moment before twisting towards him, trying to compose herself. He watched her struggle, and upon his breastbone the small cross felt ready to blister the skin beneath it.

* * *

><p>'You can hold her hand if you like…'<p>

The nurse's voice was gentle at her shoulder, but Rachel barely heard her. Her cold limbs were trembling, as though she were afraid to get closer to Quinn than she already was. The surgical scrubs that Lennox had taken for her some hours earlier were thin, and Rachel felt exposed in wearing them somehow. They had waited. They had waited for hours, and hours for news of the surgery, and now her body felt weak and wasted from the anxiety of waiting.

'She was flawless…' her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears, as though spoken by someone far away, someone other than herself. 'When I first knew her… she was so… flawless. So hopeful about people… about life. The future.' She looked down at her hands, at the subtle way that the veins had become more prominent than they once were; how time had etched itself on her skin.

'We were just children then.'

The nurse shifted at her side, but Rachel's eyes had moved to the body before her, the deathly pale skin.

'But the world is so cruel,' the singer whispered, 'it has been so cruel.'

Large machines surrounded the bed, the purposes of which she knew nothing about. They moved and beeped in their terrifying way, a tangle of coloured lines and infusion pumps beneath the monitor that displayed numbers and colours; but Rachel didn't see them. She saw only the body before her, pale and still but for the steady rise and fall of Quinn's chest with the ventilator. She took another hesitant step forwards, her eyes making a careful inventory of her as she tried to recognise the woman she loved beneath the hospital gown and tangle of wires and bandages. Lines cut into her neck, into her hands and wrists and forearms, the drains from her chest traced down to their containers on the floor, bubbling with bloody fluid as it trickled steadily from her... Rachel took stock of each and every one of them. Of the tube that was tied in at the corner of her mouth, between the pale dry lips that Rachel had once kissed so passionately. Of the thin stitches that traversed the long cut that extended down across her cheekbone from the corner of her eye. That same thin scar on her forehead, hidden as it rose up to the messy blonde hair.

As she blinked she glimpsed the girl that Quinn had been once; a flash of hazel eyes, a sun-kissed face; the reflection of the sunshine off the surface of the water that held so many secrets in its depths.

'Come back to me,' the brunette whispered, stepping closer still, her fingers reaching out to ghost across the cool skin of Quinn's hand. 'Come back to me, baby.'

But as her fingers closed around the cool hand atop the thin white sheets, Rachel felt the painful ache of hope as it burst again within her breast, and she sank, slowly, to the plastic chair.

'Come back to me,' she whispered intently, staring at the impassive face, at the unopened eyes.

'Quinn. Please.'

* * *

><p>'… we are going now, live, to New York Presbyterian Hospital, where the casualties of tonight's remarkable events have been taken. It is rumoured that Broadway sweetheart Rachel Berry, who was performing as the first round of gunfire was heard, is among the injured…'<p>

The news reporter paused, frowning momentarily as he listened intently to his ear piece.

'…hold on that. I have just been told that the NYPD has issued a formal statement…' he paused again, glancing up at the camera as he listened, 'they have confirmed that twelve people have died as a result of tonight events at the Apollo Theatre… this number includes five undercover police officers... and infamous mob hitman Joseph Waters…'

He waited a moment longer, his fingers hovering over the enamel surface before him.

'…the patient in critical condition at the New York Pres. has been named… she's been named…'

* * *

><p>Down, fell the star, twirling in the still summer air like a sycamore seed. It spiralled gently, landing against the soft skin of her collar bone; the jolt of it startling her from the haze of a pleasant dream.<p>

Quinn raised her hand above her to shield her eyes, squinting against the white glare of the midday sun. Above her the blue of the sky spread, cloudless and infinite, the blades of grass tickled at her neck and she smiled. Summertime was in the air, sunshine on the grass, and all the soft and gentle sounds of it heightened her senses. She could hear the birds in the trees above, those trees at the back of her house that had always nested sparrows, and two houses over, the Cohen children were playing in their garden, their laughter rising up and carrying on the breeze.

Quinn let her eyes flutter shut again, resting the back of her hand across her eyelids.

The warmth of the sun on her skin, the sweet dampness of the grass beneath her sundress…

Frannie's hand closed gently around hers, and Quinn could feel her sister stir beside her. She would be sitting, she knew, with her long bronzed legs curled under her, looking off over the hedge to the world that lay beyond the boundaries of this house. A book would be forgotten on her knees or discarded at her side. Quinn gently squeezed her fingers.

'Did it hurt?'

There was a lightness in Frannie's voice, a teasing playfulness that she always had when teaching her younger sister gymnastics in the back garden on these warm summers days.

'No,' Quinn smiled up to the sunshine. 'Nothing hurts now.'

She could feel the shift of weight as Frannie looked down at her, she could feel it, her sister's blue gaze, but the brightness of the sunshine was beyond her eyes, warm and pink.

'We've missed you.'

Her voice was almost a sigh, and it mixed with the rustle of the leaves in the trees above. Quinn opened her eyes, enough to make out her sister's profile silhouetted against the white of the sunshine.

'I'm sorry I took so long,' she replied softly.

On the other side of her Johnny stirred on the grass, rolling over to rest his head down on the grass beside her own, stretching out his body in the opposite direction to her own. He reached up to take Frannie's free hand, his thicker fingers intertwining her delicate ones.

'Read to us again,' he urged softly, his voice holding a boyish quality that Quinn had not noticed when he was alive. 'The one about love… I like the one about love, Frannie.'

Something about her brother's words struck her, much like the star that had woken her from her dreaming. Quinn frowned, the uncertain feeling swelling within her, as though she had forgotten something… as though something indefinable and precious was slowly and certainly slipping away from her.

'I've read it to you twice,' her sister objected softly, a smile in her voice.

'…but Lucy was asleep,' he replied gently, cajolingly. 'She slept for such a long time…'

Even as they spoke, Quinn felt the uncertainty swell. Frannie released his hand, relenting as she turned to pick up the book from the grass, her gaze falling upon the old printed words, her younger sister's scrawled writing annotating the margins. Johnny let his hand drop to the grass beside Quinn's own, and she reached for it tentatively, linking them three together.

As Frannie drew breath, Quinn's eyes opened once more against the sun, squinting to look at her sister.

'Rachel?' the thought and name came to her suddenly, a spear through the haze, 'where's Rachel?'

The taut anxiety in her tone drew a bubble of laughter from her sister, who looked down at her indulgently.

'Don't worry, you silly,' she whispered, amusement in her tone, 'can't you feel that she's here?'

When Quinn's frown didn't fade, Frannie rolled her eyes to the cerulean sky.

'She's here,' Frannie repeated, 'everywhere. Because you have always held her here,' she traced her free hand upon Quinn's breastbone meaningfully, her strong heartbeat beneath. 'Always with you, so close… Just as we will always be here, held to you.

'You'll never lose her… not again.'

Johnny's fingers tangled with her own in silent support and Frannie turned to pick up the book as Quinn let her sister's words penetrate. Up above, as she allowed her eyes to adjust to the brightness of the light, she could see the stars against the summer sky; golden, shining, five-pointed stars, just as they had been on the ceiling of Rachel's bedroom so many years ago. One by one they seemed to be spiralling down towards her, infinite in their slow descent, the warm raindrops of promises landing on her skin and catching in her eyelashes.

Beneath the summer sun, Frannie started to read, beneath the glitter of Rachel's falling stars, her rich voice like a balm over them as her fingers tangled with her sister's, who in turn had tangled her own with her brother's.

Quinn's lips parted in waiting.

* * *

><p>'She needs to make a statement,' Fiona's tone was acerbic, arms folded across her tailored suit.<p>

'Is that all that you can think about?' Jasper snapped, his eyes narrowing at the publicist. 'Her image? How the public view her? Rachel fucking Berry, _the brand_?'

'It is my job to protect that brand,' the woman replied firmly. 'And trust me… if we don't give them something to run with, they will make something up that will be disastrous for her in the long term. There is already speculation all over the press… not helped, I may add, by that ridiculous documentary that is coming out with Quinn's righteous face all over it and _your_ impromptu intimate photo leak… It's a fucking mess. Rachel is going from saint to slut to lesbian murderer every goddamn hour. She needs to make a statement; a good one, soon.'

Jasper gritted his teeth, infuriated by how perfect she could look, in her beautifully fitted suit and neatly styled hair.

'Tell them to fuck off and give her some privacy,' he snapped, 'how's that for a statement?'

* * *

><p>'This is the last place that I expected to find you.'<p>

Cary's face was weary from his years in office, the strain of maintaining strength beneath the riptides of political power. Lennox clicked the door closed behind her softly, that same wiry tension thick in her long muscles, observing him quietly. They appraised each other with the weariness of old adversaries; that familiar sizing up of each other beneath the electric lights. He was too busy for conflict, and she, too tired.

'I cared about her,' Lennox stated simply, each word clipped and tight. She snorted softly at his expression. 'You seem to have forgotten that I am capable of caring, Cary.'

He watched her carefully, a faint smile touching his dry lips.

Through the years that he had known, loved and despised her, he had watched as that vulnerable, sensitive part of her had contracted and withered beneath the unending pressure of power. It had been like watching himself in the mirror, as the best parts of him had slowly curled and died. There were words that he could speak now, these words that would draw her to him, his kindred soul, but the time for that was long passed.

'Will she survive?' he asked instead.

Lennox scoffed, a tight smile gracing her face.

'The odds are against her,' she replied coolly, in a detached tone that he knew was anything but detached, 'but then, they always were, with Quinn. She has never done as I expected her to.' She shrugged a narrow shoulder as she crossed the room and turned a glass, pouring herself the icy water from the dispenser with sharp movements. 'They'll keep her sedated for now… and see if she pulls through. But whether she will be able to awaken when they turn off the sedation remains to be seen.'

'You think that she'll be brain dead?' he pressed.

'It's possible,' she shrugged a shoulder in a carefully off-hand gesture, unwilling to say that it was likely, 'with the amount of blood she lost, and the time it took to get her to theatre…hypoxic brain injury would not be a surprise.'

'My detectives are keen to question her… but if she's brain dead then we are a bit fucked aren't we? We will never know what happened last night.'

'No,' she agreed, looking down at the surface of the water in her glass, 'it's likely that we will never know.'

He steepled his fingers, looking pensive, and her sharp eyes were on him again, drawn from her own gloomy thoughts.

'But you didn't come here to talk to me about Quinn,' she stated. She had known him long enough to know that.

'I didn't,' he agreed pensively.

'So, then… what did you find?'

He shook his head, leaning back in the chair, tempted to rub at his temples to ease the headache that was threatening. It may be years since they had let their marriage fall apart around them, but she was still one of the only people in the world that he trusted implicitly. Even so, he hesitated, despite the fact that she had been the one to bring him the information in the first place.

'A mess,' he replied bluntly, 'an utter mess, is what I found… Whoever wrote that letter has either set this all up very neatly, or…'

'Or?' she pressed.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

'You know who it is, don't you?' he realised, pushing himself up. 'Letty, if you know who it is...'

'If I knew who it was, they'd be dead,' she cut in, her sharp eyes meeting his. 'Especially, if everything that the letter implies is true… This is the mob, Cary. The same mob that managed to get that mother-fucking murderer released on bail before his little killing spree last night…'

He laughed humourlessly.

'Of course it's true,' he confirmed softly, 'corruption. At all levels of society; police, judges, politicians… the goddamn FBI. Even my own office – corruption. Mafia corruption. No one will escape this unscathed; it implicates everyone. All the rot in our society.'

Lennox squinted out at the steely sky, at the break in the rain that had started the night before.

'You sent someone to the house?'

'My best men, people I can trust,' he replied, shaking his head to himself, 'if that is even possible now. But it's all there. Tapes, records, videos. Mickey Quinn has documented everything…'

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his thinning hair. Just the gesture brought to her surprisingly tender feelings, the kind of which Lennox knew she would always harbour for him and yet, somehow, always shocked her when they came upon her.

'What are you going to do, Cary?' she asked, her voice softer than its usual acerbic tone.

He almost flinched at the gentleness. For it was worse than her harshness, just by acknowledging the hopelessness of his predicament.

'I'll do what I have to,' he replied quietly, knowing that the implications were far reaching, and for him, likely fatal, 'I'll do what is right, as DA for this city should.'

* * *

><p>'I would like to thank you for your…' the words were stuck within her dry throat, hollow. The cameras flashed, the reporters waiting, pens poised and recorders ready. 'Your kindness… during this difficult time… My sympathies go out to the families of those who died, following this terrible… event. To their parents… wives, husbands… siblings… children…'<p>

The cold wind whipped at her dark hair and she made no effort to control it. She wrapped Jasper's jacket tighter about herself, the light blue of the surgical scrubs peaking through beneath offering no protection from the harsh weather. Fiona had objected loudly and persistently against stepping out to face the crowd without dressing more appropriately, but Rachel had found that she could care less. Her face was pale, make-up-less, and she found it easier, by far, to face them naked as she was than with all the layers of false protection.

'There is nothing more harrowing than watching a loved one fight to live. Nothing more humbling.'

She licked her dry lips.

Behind her, the hospital towered up like a monolith, and Rachel felt its cold strength seep into her small body. Somewhere, within, Quinn was waiting for her, Santana by her side, holding her hand in her absence as though the very connection to the earth would keep Quinn with them.

'I know that you have many questions, and I know that there are many rumours circulating and spreading through the media.'

She didn't focus on the many faces of the reporters, jostling still for position, but instead looked to the crowd that had gathered beyond the police barriers. The people there, so reminiscent of the crowds that used to gather outside the stage door at the theatre; real people, young and old, her fans. Their sombre faces looked back at her, hanging on her words.

'And while I would like to request that you respect my privacy, and that of my friends and family, during this difficult time, there are a couple of statements that I would like to make.'

From the corner of her eye, she could see Fiona turn towards her, and could only imagine the warning on the sharp woman's face. Rachel's hands weren't shaking as she let her publicist's prompt cards slip from her numb fingers, discarded as the printed, careful words were discarded.

Above them, the sun seemed to be struggling to cut through the bruised sky and it glanced across her pale features.

'Firstly,' she found the face of a young girl in the crowd, a young girl like the one that she had been, once, dark eyes trusting and hopeful, 'I have made arrangements to relinquish my commitments to Broadway… and so, for the foreseeable future, I will not be performing.'

The noise that erupted from the crowd was between a moan and an objection, and it rippled through them like a wave, rising up and then plummeting down.

'This has been a difficult decision,' she persisted, over the noise, 'but I have made it in order to be with my family.'

She let her eyes slip to the backs of her hands as she waited for the crowd to settle. The small details, like the chipping of her nail polish, seemed like huge violations suddenly, the dryness of her un-moisturised hands… it was something that she would have been horrified about only a week ago, but here she stood, shaking her head at the mockery of the world to make her realise it now.

'And, secondly… importantly…' she took a steadying breath, 'I'd like to make a statement about Lucy Fabray.'

Fiona had turned towards her, trying to get passed Jasper's broad, unyielding form. Rachel straightened, ignoring the woman.

'You have read the papers, watched the news… heard the rumours and speculations…' the blade of light that was slicing through the clouds was bright, and it blurred their faces before her. 'They are not worth commenting on. But I would like to say this; Dr Fabray is one of the bravest and most loyal individuals that I have ever had the honour of knowing.'

She swallowed against the lump in her throat, tightening her hands until the crescents of her nails dug into the soft palms.

'The world has been a better place for having her in it… and I have been a better person for knowing her.'

_For loving her_, she added silently, turning from the stand and stepping off it, even as the reporters erupted with an onslaught of questions.

* * *

><p>'You're so mean!'<p>

The boy's furious shout startled Brittany from her thoughts as she opened the door to the waiting room of the intensive care unit.

Days had passed.

The spring storm had dissipated as the hours moved steadily on through the day and the night; one day merging seamlessly with the next, until, Brittany realised that it had been almost a week since the ambulances had brought Quinn in from the theatre. The crowd beyond the police barriers outside the hospital had dwindled to almost nothing now and, for that, she was glad.

'Carlos Lopez!' Santana's tone was both impatient and weary, her son standing before her defiantly.

The boy's fierce gaze was distracted from his mother by Brittany's appearance, and he darted towards her, wrapping his arms about her waist. Whether the gesture was meant to be supportive or protective, she couldn't tell, but raised her tired eyes to Santana's.

'What's going on?' she asked softly.

'Mami won't let me see Auntie Q,' Carlos stated angrily, his dark eyes flashing. 'She's so mean! So, so mean!'

Brittany ran a hand through his wild dark curls, the gesture soothing in itself.

'Your Auntie Q is very sick, sweetie…' she started. 'We talked about this…'

'I know!'

'Carlos,' Santana's voice was tight with warning and the boy's eyes flicked between his two mothers, pressing slightly closer to the slightly more sympathetic Brittany.

'That's why I need to see her,' he said in a more measured tone, 'I need to give her something. It's important. Momma, it's important.'

Brittany sighed, shaking her head; the intensive care unit was no place for a child. She could read Santana's exasperation in every muscle of her body.

'She's too sick at the moment, baby,' she tried again, rubbing soothing circles on his back with the hope of postponing the inevitable tantrum as she tried to find a compromise. 'Why don't you give it to Mami or me and we can give it to her?'

He shook his head vehemently, pulling away from her at her apparent betrayal and folding his arms defiantly across his chest.

'It's a secret,' he stated, scowling, 'it's a secret just between Auntie Q and me. You can't give it to her; you wouldn't know what to do, neither of you do!'

Brittany's eyes met Santana's above the boy's head and she sighed. Across from her, she knew that her wife was falling apart.

Everything was such a mess at the moment, swept up in the tornado of the last few weeks she felt that she had lost everything and re-found it all again, damaged and broken but still there, from her wife to her son and her best friends. What had seemed so important only a few weeks ago, suddenly had no meaning for her. Carlos was growing, she knew, growing away from her, as children do, and changing as he did, exposed little by little to the harsh elements of the world.

'Carlos Lopez,' Maribel's tone was scandalised as she came through the door, breaking the silence that had settled so heavily upon them, 'It wasn't you that I could hear shouting from down the hall, was it?'

Brittany felt herself almost flush from relief at the woman's unexpected appearance. There had always been a slight distance between her intimidating mother-in-law and herself, one that, just by the nature of their relationship, would never be crossed.

'No ma'am,' the little boy had the grace to look abashed.

'Hmmm,' was all that his grandmother said in response, and Carlos, realising that he had little to lose, took a gamble on his grandmother's good humour.

'I want to see Auntie Q,' he stated quietly, his large eyes downcast.

Santana, behind him, stiffened and Brittany wanted nothing more than to go to her and wrap her wife within the protective circle of her arms. The toll that this was taking on Santana was becoming more evident by the moment.

'Hmmm,' Maribel murmured again, rolling her tongue against the roof of her mouth as Santana's phone started, once more, to ring its persistent tone. The lawyer looked at it irritably, her eyes rolling before shutting it off. The damn phone had been blowing up increasingly frequently over the last few days and she was almost ready to throw against the wall.

'Your abuelo is waiting for you to help him get some hot chocolate, baby boy,' Maribel said finally, her sharp eyes taking in each of the small family in turn. 'Go on; he's just outside.'

Though everything in his stance told her that the little boy knew that he was being played, he was evidently not quite brave enough to disobey his imposing grandmother and, reluctantly, shuffled from the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

Maribel folded her arms across her chest, looking between her daughter and her daughter-in-law appraisingly.

'You have to let him see her, Santana,' she said finally, her voice quiet.

Santana's disbelieving gaze shot to her mother, her jaw quite-literally dropping open.

'You have got to be kidding me!'

'Santana…'

'No way! Absolutely _no way_.'

Brittany found herself holding her breath as the two Latina stared at each other, feeling exhaustion sweep through her. A protective fury seemed to be sweeping through her wife and the air was suddenly electrified.

'There is no way that I am letting my son see Quinn like that… with all these lines going in and out of her… with all those cuts and bruises… she's a mess. She's a fucking mess.'

Maribel watched her daughter closely, sinking slowly into the chair, but losing none of her steel.

'You have to let him see her,' she repeated herself quietly.

'Mother!'

'Listen to me, Santana,' her mother urged with uncommon softness, 'it is hard to see Quinn like that. It is hard for all of us…' She paused, enough to ensure that her fiery daughter was still listening to her. 'But you must see, you must see, mija, that if she dies, Carlos has to have had the opportunity to say goodbye...'

'She's not going to die.'

'Santana…'

'She's not going to die,' her daughter's voice cracked on the words and Brittany felt the tears spring to her own eyes at Santana's fierce denial.

Brittany almost felt herself smile at the heartbreaking words, and she felt the strength seep out of her, melting from her knees. She sank into the chair beside Santana's mother, suddenly exhausted.

'She's too goddamn stubborn to die.'

* * *

><p>When Rachel came back from the cafeteria, following another hopeless meal forced upon her by Santana's somewhat overbearing parents, she was surprised to stillness on the threshold of Quinn's room by a figure that she did not recognise. There was something, just in the way that the woman stood so perfectly still, looking down upon Quinn's pale face, that made possessiveness bristle across Rachel's skin. An unusual fear bloomed within her chest.<p>

She cleared her throat pointedly, startling both the unknown woman and the nurse who looked up at her sharply.

Rachel stepped into the room, bringing herself to her greatest height as she was confronted by a set of striking green eyes; green eyes amid a sunkissed face not much younger than her own. The singer's fingers went automatically to Quinn's hand and closed around them, disappointed and yet unsurprised that there was no response to her touch. The ventilator went on, and Quinn did not stir, no hint of movement but for the steady rise and fall of her chest. The territorial move was not missed by the pretty woman who watched her; she smirked, and with the smirk Rachel felt a cold fist tighten about her heart. She knew with certainty, a certainty that surprised her with its pinpoint accuracy, that this woman, this pretty, smirking brunette, had been Quinn's lover.

'You're Rachel,' the woman surmised, a smugness in her tone at having this slight advantage of knowledge. The accent was a foreign one, the words drawled lazily rather than spoken.

Rachel narrowed her dark eyes distrustfully.

'And you are?' she prompted coolly.

The languid smile spread across her features, and Rachel was irritated to note that even this expression leant a beguiling charm.

'Fabray's magnificent partner-in-crime,' the sarcastic drawl grated.

Australian. Definitely Australian Rachel surmised.

The woman extended her hand across the blonde's motionless body, expecting Rachel to take it. There was a moment of hesitation, but with reluctance, the singer did. The skin of her fingers was surprisingly rough, the grip steely. Rachel squeezed her hand hard.

The green eyes flashed, a strange kind of challenge, and Rachel felt her hackles rise, ready to meet it.

'Jessica Roberts.'

* * *

><p>'Who the hell does she think she is?'<p>

Santana glanced over at the furious brunette and couldn't help the smirk that crossed her features. Finally something had snapped Rachel out of her melancholy and back into some sort of interactive reality, even if it was just to bitch about the Australian doctor that had arrived the day before.

'I mean, seriously, who the hell does she think she is?' High pitched and furious; anger always seemed to bubble over the top for Rachel, as though her small frame could not quite contain it. 'Who is she to waltz in here and… and _talk_ with the doctors… and _stick_ pictures to the walls… and _touch_ Quinn with that _possessive_ look on her face!'

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, Santana honed in to one of the odd statements.

'She's sticking pictures on the wall?' she asked dubiously.

Rachel glowered.

'Artwork from the kids Quinn worked with in Cambodia,' the singer sighed.

'So sticking it up is not exactly the most unreasonable, malicious thing that she could do?' Santana probed. Rachel rolled her eyes dramatically.

'That's not the point, Santana,' she stated bitterly, using her friend's full name for emphasis, 'she kissed her.'

Santana's eyebrows rose.

'She kissed her on her forehead,' Rachel huffed and sat heavily down in one of the waiting room chairs. 'Right in front of me.'

'Rach…'

'On the scar on her forehead!'

'My mother kisses Quinn on the forehead,' Santana tried to reason.

'Not. Like. That.'

Just as the Latina was about to try a new line of reason, the sound of her ringtone cut into the silence, distracting her. She let her gaze fall to the phone and sighed. Each time it rang, she felt a heaviness sink within her and the growing frustration grip her.

Rachel's eyes watched her expectantly as the lawyer reached for her phone, promptly shutting it off.

'Who was it?' the singer asked with a frown.

Santana's spine stiffened, her features darkening, and Rachel, for the first time in many days, was suddenly aware of the impact that this whole episode had had upon her friend. She had been so wrapped up in her own sadness and desperation that she had been unable to recognise it in anyone else.

When the Latina did not answer, she felt her curiosity peak.

'Who was it, Santana?' she asked again, her tone more serious.

The dark eyes flicked up to her, the expression closed.

'Work,' she answered shortly.

'Work?' Rachel echoed, mostly to herself. She blinked and it occurred to her that while she had remained at Quinn's side for the seemingly endless days, Santana had not left either. Santana, who usually worked every daylight hour six days a week. Santana, who had fought for her career with a single-minded dedication.

'Shouldn't you…' Rachel started to suggest as the phone started to ring again.

Santana glared at it venomously before shutting it off with a jab of her finger.

'No,' she replied tersely. 'Just… _no_.'

The Latina turned away from her, stepping towards the window through which the afternoon light was making patterns on the floor. Rachel studied her, a rising concern on the tip of her tongue even as she thought better of the words she wanted to speak. Santana's vulnerability was not something that Rachel was used to dealing with; that had always been Brittany or Quinn's domain.

'I saw them die, Rach,' Santana spoke quietly before Rachel had gathered her thoughts, 'I saw him… I saw him…'

The phone started to ring again and, quick as a viper, Santana snatched it up and threw it hard against the wall of the waiting room. The loud crash of the impact surprised both of them as it splintered, fragments ricocheting in all directions.

Santana looked down at the remains of the phone with as much surprise as Rachel, as though her actions had been those of someone else. Silence stilled the air about them. It was as they were staring at it that the door opened softly.

Carlos walked over curiously to see what was fascinating them both and on seeing the fragments on the floor he frowned. He was smart enough to recognise the pieces of a broken cellphone.

'What happened?' he asked curiously, his words snapping the two women out of their apparent trance. Santana's eyes met Rachel's as she tried to think of something to say, but even as she tried to fabricate an appropriate excuse, the little boy had apparently managed to put two and two together and work it out for himself.

'Mami!' he scolded in a scandalised tone, folding his arms across his chest.

Santana pursed her lips, looking back down to the fragments of the phone on the floor.

'I'm quitting the firm,' she said softly, so softly that Rachel could barely hear her.

'I'm done,' the Latina shook her head, 'I just… I'm done.'

* * *

><p>Rachel had lost track of the days.<p>

She walked the familiar route to the intensive care unit, her eyes gritty from the hours that she had tried, and failed, to sleep. The intensity of emotion that she had felt initially was now muted, replaced by numbness and uncertainty.

She paused by the large double doors, ringing the bell and rubbing at the bridge of her nose.

'Ms Berry,' the nurse that came to open the door for her was smiling, and Rachel made the effort to return the gesture, falling short,as she always did. But there was something that was different about the way in which the nurse was looking at her, the smile lingered too long or too brightly. 'They extubated her overnight.'

Rachel blinked, her eyebrows drawing together.

'Extubated?' she echoed, confused.

The nurse's smile widened.

'Extubated,' she confirmed, 'they removed the breathing tube… Quinn is awake…'

The rest of the nurse's words were lost as Rachel ran across the distance to the familiar door to Quinn's room, her heart suddenly thudding within her chest. She paused at the threshold, a strange nausea gripping her as she turned the handle, forgetting to don the protective apron that she was meant to wear.

When she pushed the door open, her hands were trembling. There she was. The ventilator was off, and Quinn was propped up in the bed, her eyes closed as if in sleep. Rachel held her breath, looking at her, almost unable to believe her eyes. The hospital gown and lines were unchanged, the thick stitches in the cut across her cheek in stark contrast to her pale skin, but the tube was gone, and Quinn's pale lips were open just a fraction. Breathing; breathing on her own. They twitched slowly, a flicker of a smile forming, even as her eyes remained closed.

Rachel stepped into the room softly, letting the door close behind her, and painstakingly, as though it took a great effort to do so, Quinn's eyes opened.

'Rach…' her voice was croaky, the forming of the syllables was unfamiliar and difficult. The recognition in those hazel eyes sent warmth through Rachel's body, a powerful warmth that started to melt the shell of ice about her.

She swept to her side, her fingers closing around her cool hand. It was the hand around which Carlos had wrapped the thin chain with the small, golden cross. He had insisted that no one remove it from her, though how he had come upon in in the first place was a mystery.

'I'm here,' Rachel whispered, wanting to reach out and to hold her but afraid to do so, 'I'm here, baby. I'm here.'

'I… know,' the woman forced the words out, through her dry throat, each movement heavy.

'You're safe,' she murmured, kissing the blonde hair gently and nuzzling against it, 'you're safe, baby. He's gone. And you're safe. And I'm here… I'm here. And I'm not leaving... I'm not letting you go, not again…'

She took a deep breath, brushing at the tears on her cheeks even as she kissed Quinn's blonde hair once more. The blonde squeezed her fingers reassuringly, her eyes so heavy from the effort that they fluttered closed again.

'I came back,' she whispered, as though sleep was sweeping her away once again, 'I came back, Rach.'

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading; please review.<strong>


	32. Beneath the starry sky

Almost at the penultimate chapter... thank you for your reviews and feedback. It is always very much appreciated!

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 32 - Beneath the starry sky<span>

'I never really intended to make this film, this… documentary,' Brittany's voice was steady and subdued as she addressed the room of reporters who waited patiently for her to continue. It was strange for them to be so subdued, like a rowdy crowd that was now, somehow, under the hypnosis of her words.

The press conference was the first of many that the studio had scheduled; the list of which Brittany realised was growing by the hour. Initially, she had only been expected to attend three of these conferences in the run up to the premiere; however, as the impact of recent events had sparked a general interest in the upcoming film, simply through its link to Quinn, and then Quinn's link to Rachel, she had found that the number had swelled to at least eleven press interviews.

With the anxiety sparked by this one, the prospect of doing it another ten times in the coming days did not make Brittany very happy.

'But my experiences in Cambodia, in that hospital… they haunted me. They haunted me… and it is from that dark place that this film has been created.' She licked her dry lips, feeling vulnerable beneath the words. 'I couldn't _not_ make it; it was too important to me.'

The chairman, standing ramrod straight and sharp in his grey suit glanced down at his papers.

'Number forty,' he nodded to the gathered crowd, ticking the number on his paper.

The numbered reporter raised his hand.

'Cooper; Entertainment Weekly. You say that this film comes from a 'dark place',' the man glanced at his notes and then back up to meet her eyes, 'would you therefore consider it a 'dark film', Ms Pierce?'

A small frown line appeared between her brows and Brittany felt her skin prickle beneath the stifling heat of their combined gaze. It made her skin itch. She thought of the night sky, not the one blotted out by the lights of New York City, but the sky that she had glimpsed through her window in Lima, when she had been a child. The promise that the world had once held for her.

'No, it is not a dark film,' she replied gently.

That same sky was the one that hung above Phnom Penh; the sky of a thousand stars, just out of reach.

'It is a film, primarily, about hope. Although it doesn't shy away from the struggle and endless tragedy in Cambodia, its aim is to showcase how powerful hope is and how, even as individuals, we can truly make a difference to the world that we live in.'

She glanced down at her notes briefly, signalling to the chairman that she had not yet finished answering this question.

'Cambodia is one of the poorest countries in the world; it has been ravaged by war and the aftermath of war for almost half a century,' she let her gaze travel across the room, over them, and beyond, 'this documentary is not political. It is not about the Khmer Rouge, it is not about the CPP, or the Vietnam war or the genocide... it focuses on the establishment of a hospital south of Phnom Penh. It is about the vision of the people struggling to run it. It is about humanity... about hope.'

Drawing a trembling breath, she nodded to the chairman to signal that she was finished her answer and readied herself for the next question, resisting the urge to fiddle with the papers on the table before her. Their gazes, so cutting, made her nervous. Infinitely nervous and strangely guilty, as though she were representing something that she had no right to represent; as though all her words were hollow and dissolving beneath their probing questions.

'Number sixty-seven,' the chair announced.

'Jensen; Time magazine,' the reporter narrowed his eyes as he fixed his gaze on her and Brittany felt a tremor of apprehension. 'How can you possibly make any film about Cambodia without it being political? That is to say, without mentioning the Khmer Rouge genocide and the impact of that on its subsequent development? Everything about that country is political. _Massively_ political. Isn't it a bit naïve of you to think otherwise?'

Brittany took a deep breath, reaching for the glass of water on the table before her as she tried to gather her thoughts. Her hand was shaking. She looked at it; as her fingers closed around the cool glass, damp with condensation. They had tried to brief her for these kinds of questions, the kinds of questions that were particularly challenging, but on the table her notes seemed scrawled and smudged. Her heart raced.

'Thank you for your question…'

The water was cool on her tongue and it helped calm her once more, then out, in the crowd, her eyes found a familiar face; one that she had not expected to be present. The woman leant against the back wall of the room, a studied nonchalance to her stance and Brittany met her green gaze across the distance. Although she did not know Jessica Roberts, she felt the sudden and unexpected understanding between them, as fragile and persistent as the silver string of a spider's web.

'Thank you for your question,' she repeated slowly into the microphone, 'and to answer it… when I say that this documentary is not political, I mean that it is not intended to take a political stance. Instead, it looks at the effect that all these years of political upheaval have had upon its people. Of course, the genocide is important… it is part of what has brought this beautiful country to its knees.'

She paused, fingers finding and raising her notes from the table before putting them down again with a shrug of her shoulders. There was nothing written there that she didn't know; and it struck her suddenly that to answer these people, these reporters in their dark suits and skirts, sipping on Perrier water in this city so far removed from the country that they were discussing, she would have to speak from the heart. From where this all began.

'Public health services were destroyed during the Khmer Rouge reign and were only slowy re-introduced afterwards… mostly through haphazard foreign aid and NGOs. During the genocide one third of the population were killed – _one third_ – that is _two million people_ - so that in 1979, there were only forty-five doctors left in the entire country… and over twenty of them fled. It is no wonder that people are dying over there from easily curable diseases; people are dying and suffering and struggling… '

The cameras were flashing as she spoke, but she did not see them, she just saw the walls of the room melt away around her. She saw the uneven roads, thick with mud; she saw the paddy fields and the children and the little boy who had died in her arms.

'So yes, the genocide, the Khmer Rouge – they helped cut this country down at the knees. But it is through humanity and hope that this nation can rebuild itself… I maintain that this documentary is about hope; hope for the future.'

* * *

><p>The bed was certainly too small for both of them, but there they were, crammed together. It made Quinn ache every time that she tried to move without pressing the towel roll against her re-wired sternum, but she had always known that she would do anything for him, and she could suffer a little pain to reassure him of her recovery.<p>

Carlos hummed against her shoulder, his dark eyes fixed on the screen.

'Can I have a lightsaber for my birthday?' he asked thoughtfully, not taking his eyes off the screen.

The blonde let a small smile tug at her features, even as the small movement pulled sharply at the stitches in her cheek. It was going to scar. Another scar, another horrible reminder. Her body felt so heavy, as though each limb were filled with lead, and the effort that it was taking just to hold him close to her and watch the movie was immense… but after days of being unable to do anything at all she was determined to at least try to impersonate normality.

'Depends what you would do with it,' she murmured into his dark curls, her own eyes drifting from Skywalker on the screen to the pictures on the walls; scribbled colours from a world far, far away. A different life.

Her eyes settled on Nabir's drawing, the strangely surrealistic picture of orange columns with pointed tips flying through the air. Rachel had interpreted them as syringes with artistic licence; Brittany saw them as darts or arrows, or maybe even little orange aeroplanes after the wings had been forgotten, but Quinn knew that she recognised them for what they were.

The night that she had been taken to Nabir on roofs of Phnom Penh, the night that she had carried his small body down to a half-built hospital and tended to him in the candlelight, that night she had been humbled by the value of human life. He had been so dehydrated that she had thought that he would die, regardless of her efforts, and even having made the diagnosis, she was frustrated at her inability to treat him without the array of pharmacology and medical equipment that she had taken for granted in the US. Quinn had begged, cajoled, argued and bribed her way into acquiring medicines for him, and against the odds, Nabir had lived. He had lived, and with him a spark of purpose had ignited something more for Quinn, something beyond herself and her life.

That is why she knew what they were, these little insulin pens; the insulin pens that Nabir interpreted as saving his life, he had drawn to help save hers. Her arm tightened around Carlos at her side even as she thought of the other little boy on the other side of the world.

'Fight evil,' Carlos stated certainly, in response to her question, shifting his weight in a way that made her wince. The chest drain, inserted between her ribs, hurt each time she moved, even more than the sternotomy, but she was reluctant to call in the nurse to request more medication… mainly because she knew that the exasperated woman would scold her for having smuggled Carlos into the small bed with her to watch the film.

'And what have I told you about fighting, darling?' she asked mildly.

The boy shifted to look at her, a flash of defiance in his brown eyes.

'_You_ were fighting,' he stated.

'Excuse me?'

'_You_ were fighting,' he repeated, 'you were fighting evil; the _dark_ side.'

Quinn arched an eyebrow at his words, but kept silent, uncertain of what to say. Her nephew had definitely watched too much Star Wars for one day, but on the screen, Jabba the Hutt was forgotten as Carlos' attention turned to her. He was watching her, reaching up to trace the long cut down her cheek with his fingertip. He was gentle, and Quinn didn't stop him as he ran his fingertip over the bumps of the stitches.

It was always a surprise when it came upon her; these briefest of moments that made her catch her breath, when she could feel the weight of the gun in her hand and see Waters on the floor before her, looking up. So suddenly she remembered again what she had done. So suddenly, each time it happened, and the nausea would hit her again; the blood would drain from her skin, leaving her pale and numb and sickened.

'I know you won't tell me,' Carlos continued, taking her silence for something else entirely, 'superheroes aren't allowed to tell… neither are Jedi's, I guess, if they are being hunted.'

The moment of nausea passed, her panic muted. Joseph Waters faded away once more.

'I'm not a Jedi,' she assured him as he continued to look at her with narrowed eyes, as though he were seriously considering the possibility. She was always astounded by the power of the boy's mind to wander into the miraculous world of imagination, and for a split second, she envied him for it.

'That is what a Jedi would say,' he pointed out.

Quinn rolled her eyes, pressing a kiss against his serious forehead and turning back to the film.

'Watch your film, tiger,' she instructed, and with a snort of disbelief, he did, his fingertips dropping to play mindlessly with the small cross around her neck as he rested his head on her shoulder. Though she struggled to stay awake with him, her eyelids were so heavy that they closed not ten minutes later, the light of the early afternoon upon her face.

That was how Rachel found them, an hour later, both asleep and curled together as Luke battled against his father on the small screen. She fought against the smile that crossed her features as she shut off the movie, trying to summon the scolding words that she should blister them both with for letting the boy climb into the hospital bed once again. Apart from Quinn's obviously fragile state, it was an infection issue on the intensive care unit, and they both knew better. But Quinn's features had softened in sleep, and Rachel couldn't bear to prise them apart. Instead, she pressed a soft kiss against her girlfriend's brow and then settled down into the chair beside the bed, thanking the universe, and any deities that were listening, for giving them all a second chance.

* * *

><p>'I can't remember.'<p>

It was the third time that Quinn had made such a statement during the interview, just the right balance of frustration in her voice as she said the words. There was a twitch at the corner of her eyes; the way in which they narrowed that drew Santana's sharp attention back to her.

The detective sighed in frustration, running a hand through his peppery hair and leant back in the chair. Though Quinn was still not well enough to move out of the intensive care unit, she was lucid enough now to answer the questions that the police had for her.

'You remember nothing?' He pressed again, 'absolutely nothing?'

Quinn's hazel eyes flashed as she shrugged her shoulders, and Santana knew, Santana _knew_ that she was lying, but just by how much she was lying remained to be seen.

'Nothing,' the blonde repeated once more, in a manner that reminded Santana that her best friend had once yearned to study drama, 'I must have… hit my head as I went down, or maybe its the blood loss, I'm not sure… but I can't remember anything between entering the building and waking up here. I already told you that.'

From the corner of her eye, Santana could see Rachel straighten. The brunette had insisted on being present for the interview, in order to show support, but had spent the majority of it staring out of the window. Her features were relaxed, her lips forming a gentle line that was not quite a smile, but just from the way that she was standing, Santana knew that Rachel's mind was racing. She, too, clearly knew that Quinn was lying.

'We are just trying to establish the facts…' the detective tried again, sounding somewhat strained.

'And I cannot help you do that,' Quinn insisted, starting to sound a bit irritated, 'as I _cannot_ remember what happened.'

The detective glanced at his partner and folded his arms across his chest. The room felt crammed with people and the strain of the concentration was clearly starting to show on Quinn's features. She was tired, and sore, but there was something else there as well. Something subtler.

'Don't you think that it is unusual that Joseph Waters came to the theatre?' the detective probed, his slate grey eyes flicking up to Santana before landing once more on Quinn. 'Don't you find it strange that your childhood friend was his lawyer… that she was the last person to see him alive and that, instead of running and hiding when he escaped, he came across town to a theatre and tried to kill you? Don't you think that is a strange coincidence?'

Quinn held his gaze, and the silence stretched on long enough that Rachel looked over her shoulder. Her girlfriend appeared so pale and small beneath the hospital gown that Rachel had to restrain herself from gathering the woman up and shielding her from these men and their questions. It was why she had spent the majority of this interview staring out of the window, so that she did not have to watch Quinn and her apparent vulnerability.

'I don't believe in coincidences,' the blonde said softly. Santana glanced at her in surprise, anxious that Quinn was about to say something that would somehow incriminate all of them. 'And neither do you.'

The detective tilted his head, waiting for her to go on.

'But I cannot second-guess Joseph Waters' thoughts or intentions,' the doctor stated firmly, 'and I am not going to speculate about them. It's a waste of time.'

Rachel turned her attention back to the window, content that Quinn was holding her own. The blonde may look vulnerable and broken beneath the bruises that had blossomed across her pale skin but her girlfriend had grown strong, so much stronger than Rachel had given her credit for.

'Had you ever met Joseph Waters before?'

'No.'

The answer was flat.

'Had you ever heard of him?'

'No.'

'How about Mickey Quinn?'

Even from the corner of her eye, Santana could see Rachel flinch at the name, and Quinn's silence this time answered for her. It was painful; painful because of how awkward and protracted it became. The blonde didn't tense, she just stared blankly at the detective for a very long moment. He rolled his shoulders, settling back into his chair.

Somehow what had started out as a simple witness statement had developed into an interrogation. Santana watched closely, her lawyer instincts tuning in protectively.

'What does he have to do with anything?' Quinn asked, not even bothering to deny that she knew the infamous man. The detective smiled thinly.

'Maybe everything,' he stated, reaching for the plastic cup of water to take a sip of it. 'You knew him?'

Quinn smiled wryly, the expression crinkling the dressing on her cheek.

'I knew him as "Uncle Mike",' she replied evenly, 'he sent me birthday presents each year... I met him only twice; once at my parent's funeral and then again a few weeks later.'

The police officer beside the detective was making notes, despite the recorder that was set on the table beside Quinn, but now he glanced up with anticipation, and Santana felt her stomach plummet. There was a hint in that look that told her something unexpected was about to happen, that they knew something, _they knew something_, and Quinn was going to be trapped by her own response to whatever it was.

'So, he was friends with your parents?'

Quinn rubbed absently at the scar on the back of her hand, and Santana knew that beneath the calm surface, she was starting to struggle.

'My father did business with him,' she answered. 'I don't know the details of it.'

'And your mother?'

Quinn blinked.

'My mother?' she echoed.

'Did she know Mickey Quinn?'

The question sounded so simple, and yet the complexity of it had haunted Quinn for years. She felt her heart trip over itself, and was glad that she had disconnected the ECG monitoring before allowing the detective into the room.

'I… don't know.'

'But she would visit Chicago?' He pressed, 'your mother. She would visit Chicago? Am I correct?'

'Yes,' the doctor responded, 'but, what…'

'And she would visit the west coast, as well?' the detective interrupted.

'Sometimes…'

'And did you ever accompany her on these trips?'

A muscle in the blonde's jaw jerked and at the window, Rachel's lips had tightened into a thin line, resolutely staring out over the city. She daren't turn around lest she reveal how upsetting this line of questioning may be for her girlfriend.

'No…' Quinn answered.

'Where exactly is this going, Detective?' Santana cut in, folding her arms across her chest. 'May I remind you that Dr Fabray has consented to give you a voluntary statement about the Apollo Theatre shootings, not to answer questions about her own family and history. If you want to conduct a more formal interview then you are going to have to…'

'Santana,' Quinn cut her off softly, 'it's ok.'

'No,' the Latina hissed at her, 'it's not.' She turned back to the detective who was eyeing her with a little more interest than he had done previously. 'As if it is not bad enough that she was almost stabbed to death, you need to start interrogating her like a criminal now?'

'This is not an interrogation…' the detective was quick to reassure her, holding up his hands in an attempt to pacify her. 'This is not an interrogation… it is just a discussion, a discussion that I hope will shed some light on a case that has been linked with this one.'

Santana's jaw tightened. 'Then turn it off.' She stated. 'If this is just a discussion, then turn it off. Turn the recorder _off_.'

The younger police officer looked between them, from the detective and the lawyer, until finally, with the smallest of nods, the detective acquiesced. He clicked the button on the recorder. The atmosphere that settled across them was heavy and Quinn had had enough time to gather the torn edges of her thoughts together, enough time to compose herself.

'My parents died a long time ago,' she stated quietly, watching his face. 'Along with my sister.'

'I know,' the detective shifted in his seat, an expression similar to sympathy crossing his features. 'but we now have reason to believe that that was not an accident.'

The shock that his words brought with them was real. He interpreted it as shock because she had obviously not known, instead it was shock that the truth had finally been revealed. Quinn swallowed, the blood in her veins feeling icy and her mind raced. If he knew this… if he knew this then it was more than likely that he knew it from Mickey's records, the room full of incriminating recordings. It meant that they had found it. It meant that they were not burying it but using it.

'We believe…' he paused, glancing at the police officer beside him, 'we believe that your parents and your sister were murdered.'

'Murdered?' Quinn's voice was tight over the word, and it came out strangled. Each and every time that she thought about it, it hurt. It still hurt.

'The original report of the fire was buried,' the detective explained slowly, 'but it has now come to light. It reveals a much more sinister explanation for your parent's deaths.'

'Murdered?' Quinn repeated again, and Rachel's hand squeezed her shoulder. She wasn't sure when Rachel had moved from her place by the window, but with that gesture, Quinn realised that it felt as though she had been beside her for a long time. She frowned deeply, staring down at the blankets that covered her scarred legs. Her memories of that night had been burned into her, they had been etched into her skin. She shook her head, ready to ask the question that she had never had a real answer to. 'By whom?'

Of course, the name seemed to hover between them now. The name so fresh on their lips. His name. That sickness struck Quinn again, the same sickness that came on so suddenly each and every time she thought about the weight of the gun in her own hand. Mickey had never told her who had planned to kill her parents; he had only ever presented her with the man who had carried out the deed. He had expected her to believe him, to pull the trigger, to kill him. He had expected her to become like him.

'Mickey Quinn.'

The detective's words fell like stones to the floor, heavy and dull in the sound that they produced.

Quinn scoffed, shaking her head, but Rachel's hand had stilled on her shoulder.

'No,' Quinn said into the silence that followed, 'no way… I mean, why? Why would he do that? What possible reason could he have…'

Yet, in a horrible way she had always known it, and had never wanted to.

'He had a very plausible reason…' the detective interrupted her rant.

'Which was _what?_'

Santana felt herself holding her breath as the man answered, a cold wave running through her.

'To take complete control of the mob in Chicago,' the detective answered slowly, 'by killing the only person that could challenge him…'

'Russell Fabray was his _business_ partner,' Quinn objected pointedly, 'he was not part of the mob. He was a complicated man, but he was not a mobster. He would never have had any influence with them…'

'I'm not talking about your father,' the detective stated plainly, and this time the shock that he saw on her face was real and pained. 'I'm talking about Judith Fabray.'

It was as though a grey sheet had descended in front of her, blocking her vision, and his voice was suddenly so far away.

'Formally Judith O'Donnell… of the Chicago O'Donnells.'

* * *

><p>Santana leant back against the front door of her house after closing it behind her, and shut her eyes. She stood there for a long moment, just absorbing the safe feeling of the house around her, of her home. The familiarity of it, of the smells, and the sounds and the lighting.<p>

Once more, before her, the image of Quinn's mother formed. The woman, so elegant, so distant… Santana had been wary of her as a child, of the cool elegance that the socialite embodied, the hardness of those icy blue eyes… and yet she had been drawn to her too, with a magnetic intensity.

'Mija, what are you doing out here?'

Her own mother's voice was warm as she came through from the kitchen, and as Santana blinked open her eyes she realised that they were stinging with unshed tears.

Before she knew it, she had pulled the older woman into her arms, though there was a question as to which of them was hugging and which was being hugged. Maribel smelt of cinnamon and summertime, though the rain still drizzled outside. Santana pressed her face into her mother's shoulder and held her body against her own; the tan skin across the knots of her joints, smoothed and stretched, and the cascade of dark hair in gentle waves over her shoulders.

'Santana,' her name was musical on her mother's tongue and she felt the warmth swell and burst within her. 'What's troubling you?'

The lawyer exhaled gently.

'I'm just thankful for you,' she murmured into the woman's shoulder, 'I'm just… I'm just so thankful for you.'

When Santana walked into the kitchen a few moments later, her brow furrowed as she saw the two glasses of white wine on the bar in the kitchen. Brittany drank white, sure… but both of her parents only drank red.

'Who…?' she started to ask aloud, although her mother had disappeared up the stairs with the laundry, but she was interrupted by her wife's musical laughter as she drifted into the room, the young Australian doctor behind her.

Jessica smiled warmly at her, leaning up against the counter.

Santana did not move.

'You have a beautiful house,' the doctor smirked, her green eyes twinkling.

'I do,' Santana replied, 'so the question is; what are _you_ doing in it?'

'Santana!' Brittany exclaimed, swatting at her, but Jessica did not appear to be offended.

'As it happens, your wife invited me,' she said, her lips twitching in amusement. She reached for the glass of white wine and swirled it around on the counter-top.

'She was at my press conference today,' Brittany explained, reaching for Santana's hand to bring her reluctantly towards the Australian. 'She wanted to see some of the footage of the documentary.'

Jessica took a sip of white wine and set the glass firmly down again with a clink.

'Brittany is very talented,' the doctor stated and Santana's dark eyes narrowed once more in distrust.

'Stop trying to charm me and my family,' she warned; her voice barely above a whisper. 'I know people like you… snakes. Snakes in the grass…'

Any faint flicker of amusement had vanished from Jessica's face, and the green eyes became serious. Instead of flinching away, however, she leant forwards on her narrow forearms. Brittany looked between them, awkwardly.

'_Why_ do you dislike me so much?' Jess asked, cutting her off.

'Because I can see what you are doing,' Santana snapped, miroring her movements in leaning forwards against the counter on the opposite side. 'And I can tell you… I can tell you right now, that it will not work. Rachel and Quinn have finally found each other again, and no one, I mean _no one_, not even you, little Miss Crocodile Dundee, is going to fuck with that.'

As Santana watched, however, a strange kind of amusement melted the hardness of Jessica's features. She shook her head lightly, the waves of her chestnut hair bouncing off her shoulders.

'You don't get it,' she replied finally, picking up the glass of white wine again and tipping the entire contents back in one go. Brittany's eyebrows rose at the action even as the Australian set the empty glass back on the counter with finality, and stepped away from it. 'You clearly don't get it, Santana.'

She turned to gather up her bag and then her coat from the back of the chair beside her, shrugging it on.

'I'm not stealing Quinn away from anything,' she stated pointedly. 'I'm just taking her back to where she belongs.'

Santana rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest.

'She belongs in New York,' she replied firmly, 'with Rachel.'

As Jessica finished buttoning up her coat she looked across to the blonde and gave her a small smile before turning her attention back to Santana.

'That may have been true two years ago,' she said softly, stepping around the counter, 'but it's not anymore. Quinn has a life out there… and a family… and a purpose.'

Not for the first time that day, Santana felt a shiver of apprehension ripple across her skin.

'She has family here,' she replied certainly.

Jessica smiled, an unfriendly kind of smile that acts as a challenge, a gauntlet thrown between them.

'But she belongs in Cambodia,' the Australian replied.

* * *

><p>'Baby,' Rachel's voice was both soft and scolding as she slipped into the room, 'you <em>know<em> you shouldn't be out of bed…'

The night sky, beyond the window, was alight with the orange glow of the city. The buildings rose up, like organic things growing from once fertile ground, and the hospital, built tall and thin, towered above the others around it. Quinn's reflection in the glass was blurred, and when Rachel reached her side, she could make out the glitter of the tears against the pale cheek.

Her arms carefully encircled the woman, closing around the light hospital gown to hold her against her smaller body.

'I don't want to be in bed.'

The whispered words brought a smile to Rachel's lips. They sounded so strangely innocent that she could almost close her eyes and imagine them coming from the lips of a much younger Quinn Fabray, a girl that she had never really known.

'I wanted to see the stars…' the blonde swallowed against her tears, 'but I forgot… I forgot that you can't see them from here. The city lights always blot them out.'

Rachel's fingers traced small circles against the exposed skin, and she smiled gently, leaning in to kiss the blondes neck. Beyond the glass, the light against the cloud was as incandescent as that from an inferno below, the amber shades silhouetting the dark buildings. It was an unusually beautiful sight, and Rachel took the moment to admire it.

'It's okay to be angry,' she said softly.

Beneath her fingertips, she could feel Quinn take a shuddering breath. Rachel knew that the blonde was too weak, still, to be out of the bed unsupported, especially with the fragility of her breathing with the chest drains still between her ribs and her muscles wasted from lack of use. But she knew that Quinn knew this too, and the last thing that the stubborn blonde needed was a patronising lecture from her girlfriend.

'I'm not angry,' Quinn responded quietly, her hazel eyes fixed, still, on the horizon. 'I don't know what I am, Rach… I feel so… numb.'

She swallowed, and reached up, hesitantly, to wipe at the tears that fell so traitorously from her eyes. The sharp intake of breath sent shooting pain through the healing muscles of her wounds and she flinched, tensing beneath Rachel's gentle hands. They did not hesitate in their soothing movements, and a moment later, the blonde relaxed again into her.

'But the worst bit?' Quinn took another breath, holding it a moment before releasing it slowly, 'the worst bit is knowing that I will never know. Mickey is dead. Russell is dead… and my mother… my mother is dead… so I will never know.'

The glow was fading as the darkness deepened and as it did Rachel could see her own reflection grow stronger in the glass; her brown eyes, her coffee-coloured hair, strong and steady and substantial behind the pale blonde who seemed almost translucent in their combined reflection.

'So maybe it doesn't matter?' Quinn's words were raw and Rachel knew that nothing that she could say would take that pain away now. 'It is all speculation, isn't it? Half-formed facts and rumours? There is no evidence… no evidence but the coincidence of a name and men who speak with certainty on things that they know nothing about…'

Quinn met Rachel's eyes in the glass, loosing herself in the warmth that she found there; a warmth that she could never conjure for herself. Although she wished that she could sink into that warmth, she knew that there was a part of her now that would be forever cold and unreachable.

'So why does it feel as though they are right?' she asked.

Rachel didn't flinch back from the question, meeting her girlfriend's gaze fully in the glass. After the revelations of the weeks since Quinn had returned from Cambodia, she found herself desensitised to the shock of them. There was something there, in her hazel eyes, something that the blonde was holding back.

'You think that Michael Quinn arranged for your parents to be killed?' she asked softly.

Quinn's face twisted as she tried to control her expression, as she tried not to feel the emotion that ripped through her.

'I know that he was a killer,' she replied quietly, remembering not the wasted shell on the hospital bed, but the powerful man with the gun in his hand, the man that he had been for so long. 'He was a power-hungry, cold-blooded killer.'

The weight of the gun in her own hand; pulling the trigger. She had not hesitated; not that time. Her eyes slipped down to her hands, resting against the window ledge. Waters' eyes in that pale green light; the recognition that had flashed in them. He had known that she was a Quinn. He had known her.

'I was afraid that he had done it,' she admitted softly, thinking back to the powerful way that her instincts had screamed at her when she had first seen Mickey at the funeral. How she had known, somehow known what he had done, just with how the darkness seemed to cling to him. 'But I didn't want to believe that he had. I didn't want to believe it, and so I let myself believe his lies instead.'

Quinn swallowed down her nausea, pushing Joseph Waters from her mind once more, only to replace him with the colossal figure of Mickey Quinn. The dangerous look in eyes that reflected her own when she had challenged him that day.

_Why would I do that, Quinn?_ He had demanded of her. _Why?_

'He was my father.'

Rachel sighed, gently pulling the blonde around in her arms and allowing herself a small smile when the woman let herself be manoeuvred. She reached up to cup her face with her hands, running her thumbs gently across the pale cheeks.

'Stop it,' she said firmly, staring hard into the hazel eyes before her. Quinn blinked in sudden bewilderment but Rachel didn't quite buy it. She raised her chin a fraction, arching an eyebrow.

'There is more to a person than their genetics,' the brunette stated pointedly, 'I know the importance of that lesson more than anyone, Quinn. He may be your father, but that does not mean that you are anything like him. You are much greater than the sum of your parts, and I don't want you to think otherwise, even for a second. Got it?'

The barriers that, for so many years, had shielded Quinn from the world, had melted, and they left her raw and vulnerable beneath them.

'You don't know the things that I have done, Rachel,' she whispered, her voice cracking, but the brunette's resolve seemed to only strengthen with the words.

'And I don't need to know,' the brunette replied steadfastly, 'because I know you. I know you, the person that you are… the woman that I love. You are a good person, Quinn. A wonderful person. I wish that you could see that… and maybe oneday, you will be ready to tell me of the things that haunt you; then maybe oneday you may be able to see what I see…'

She held the gaze for a moment longer, before leaning in to kiss the soft lips gently. It was barely a touch, but it was enough; enough to seal her words.

'Now,' Rachel looked at her imperiously, 'you are getting back into that bed. And you are not going to argue with me, Fabray.'

Quinn snorted, in an attempt to push the darker thoughts aside.

'As if that ever happens,' she muttered, gingerly allowing herself to be led by Rachel's steady hand. She turned away from the fading glow of the sky, wishing that the clouds and the lights would blot out her thoughts as well as they blocked out the stars.

* * *

><p>'I don't believe it,' Brittany stated flatly, curled up on the couch with her wife's arms wrapped snugly around her, 'Judy Fabray? Absolutely no way… the cops must be delusional.'<p>

Behind her, Santana stared up at the ceiling and the patterns of the light that danced upon it. She was enjoying the firmness of her wife's body, the solid warmth of it within her arms... it was a feeling that she had been afraid was lost to her forever.

After a moment or two of silence, Brittany stiffened and twisted around, her brow furrowing.

'Are you seriously considering this, Santana?' she asked, a hint of disbelief in her tone. 'Judy Fabray was a Catholic socialite in _Lima_, of all places. There is no way…'

The Latina shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly.

'She was an O'Donnell before she was married,' she replied.

'Which means what, exactly?' Brittany asked with an arch of her eyebrow.

Santana took a sip of the wine, savouring the taste of it against her tongue. It had been such a long time since she had relaxed with her wife in the evening like this and she wanted to enjoy every little moment of it, even if their topic of conversation was quite macabre.

'The O'Donnells were one of the Irish mob families in Chicago,' she replied slowly, struggling to dredge the information from her memory. 'The south side, or the west side or something like that.'

'How do you even know that?' Brittany challenged, flicking her long blonde hair over a shoulder and propping herself up to fix her wife with her blue gaze. Santana met her eyes, competitively rising to the bait.

'Because I had to learn an obscene amount about the mob's history when we were preparing for the trial,' she retorted playfully, before adding dryly, 'I never expected that they were actually just living down the road.'

Brittany smacked her lightly on the arm, shooting her a disapproving look.

'The Fabrays were not mobsters,' the blonde repeated firmly.

'No?' Santana looked less convinced than she had a moment before.

'No.'

'Then how did they know Mickey Quinn at all?' Santana asked, 'he was already established in Chicago at the time that Quinn was born.'

'Because Russell was a money launderer for them,' Brittany stated frankly, determined to squash Santana's persistent conspiracy theorising, 'we already knew that…'

'Or maybe Judy was the link between Russell and Mickey,' Santana suggested, 'maybe we just assumed that it was the other way around…'

Brittany rolled her eyes.

'But _Roy_ already told us that they grew up together,' she objected, 'Mickey and _Russell_.'

Santana smirked, swirling the red wine in her glass.

'Actually, I'm pretty certain that he said Mickey and _Fabray_ grew up together,' she replied, and at her wife's sceptical look, she tapped her temple, 'lawyer memory, baby... it's all in the details. Plus, didn't you find his attitude towards Quinn a little strange?'

Brittany frowned at her, and with the careful way that the blonde was listening Santana knew that she had hooked her attention enough to hear her out.

'Roy's attitude,' the Latina explained, 'like… the whole staying-in-New-York-and-watching-Rachel thing. Protecting her. Killing for her. It doesn't really make sense.'

'Quinn asked him to do that,' Brittany pointed out.

'But why did he do it?' Santana pressed, 'Mickey was his boss, not Quinn… so why did he stay here? Why did he protect her? Why did he protect us?'

Brittany's face scrunched itself up with concentration and she rubbed at her temple absently as she considered her wife's words.

'Because she helped him when he was injured,' Brittany responded, her voice less certain than it had been, 'he felt guilty for endangering her…'

'Or maybe,' Santana interjected, 'he felt guilty for what he had done to her family; maybe he felt guilty about his role in killing the Fabrays?'

Brittany held her gaze for a long moment, her expression serious.

'San,' she sighed finally, 'that is dark. That is really, really dark.'

She settled uncomfortably back onto the couch, her expression troubled. Santana reached out for her, pulling her down towards her own body and pressing them together.

'Are you still so certain that Judy Fabray was just a socialite?' she asked lightly.

Brittany's head rolled against her shoulder, the blue eyes looking up at the patterns of light on the ceiling that had been entrancing Santana earlier.

'She lived such a small life in Lima…' the blonde answered softly, 'such a small life that hid so many big secrets.'

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading - please review.<strong>


	33. Some kind of redemption

Thank you for the reviews and for everyone still reading this. Your comments and thoughts are always appreciated If you have any questions then feel free to PM me.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 33 – Some kind of redemption<span>

The concrete floor felt cold beneath her barefeet, each step cutting into the tender flesh as she silently charted the uneven ground. A green glow cast sickly shadows across the floor in a room so familiar to her, a room that she had visited many times in dreams just like this.

'What are you waiting for?'

With his soft voice, as always, the adrenaline seemed to surge through her; it constricted her arteries, dilated her eyes, sped her heart, but far from harsh, it was cajoling. Her nightdress brushed against her knees, its simple hem fluttering in the warm air, and heavy in her small child-sized hand, was clutched the large grip of the handgun. The cold metal of it had warmed with her body, fused with her.

'What are you waiting for, darling?'

Her mother's voice, deep and measured and rich, always resonated within her. Long golden hair rustled as she brushed it quietly from her shoulder, her large hazel eyes blinking slowly as she looked at him. Child's eyes, a child's innocence.

Strewn, like a puppet dropped from a great height, upon the concrete, and beneath the green glow that made his skin seem grey and the pool of his blood seem black, he struggled with each breath. She had never seen a man die; she had never seen a man die, and yet, with that strange certainty of childhood she knew that this loop had completed itself before, and would again, over and over and over again.

'Luce?'

His lips formed her name, and she stretched out her arm, narrowing her eye to focus down the sight as she had seen her father do. Slow and deliberate, she squeezed the trigger, the gun trying to jump from her hand from the recoil as the bullet found its mark and the black flower of blood bloomed from his forehead.

'Lucy?'

But just as quickly as the bullet had found its mark, she could see the face again, reformed and distorted, blood specs on his lips. Her father's eyes looked up at her, hazel and familiar. As quickly as the first time, she squeezed the trigger, not once, but twice, the icy strands tightening about her chest.

'Darling.'

Her mother's voice, and Quinn caught her lip between her teeth, the copper taste of blood upon her tongue as she pulled the trigger again. Each bullet found its mark, but the body would not lie dead. Every time it stirred, she recognised the voice, the face of those who had gone, who she had lost, until finally… finally, it was her own face staring back at her.

The child-Quinn, with the gun steady in her hand, paused, frightened and confused as she stared down at the woman that she would become. The worst of the bullets were for this woman and she had no difficulties with pulling the trigger again.

Quinn woke with a start in the darkness, sweat soaking through the hospital gown and into the sheets of the bed. She gasped, in an attempt to catch her breath, her eyes darting around the darkened hospital room until they settled onto the familiar brunette curled up asleep in the chair at the bedside.

Running an agitated hand through her sweat-soaked hair, she watched Rachel in order to calm herself. But as her breathing regulated, and the dream receded, as it did each night, back into the shadows, her attention was distracted by another sensation, a great, insatiable itchiness from beneath the narrow stitches of the wound on her cheek. Wincing, she flung the bedsheets aside, slipping from the bed to stumble unevenly towards the bathroom. She pulled the white cord and the fluorescent light above the mirror flickered to life.

Ants, she felt, were crawling beneath the surface, bulging up beneath the angry red line on her cheek. Her hands shook from the desire to claw at it, to claw at her own face. It looked innocent enough, as she stared at her reflection with feverish eyes, but ants…the ants could crawl beneath the surface, or larvae had been laid there waiting to hatch, as she had seen in Cambodia, in the foot of an old man. She had pressed the scalpel so gently against his taut skin that it had parted like silk for her, and from beneath the shiny red flesh, the little white maggots had sprung forth in a quivering mass amid the rotting fibres of muscle. The stench of it had stayed with her into her dreams that night. Dreams and nightmares blurred.

Quinn fumbled for the scalpel that she had hidden when the nurse had removed her chest drains a few days ago. She had kept it, burrowed it away like a magpie, uncertain as to why. It was narrow and cool between her fingertips; I felt unreal, much less real than the gun had felt just moments ago.

The scalpel's edge, a beam of silver in the darkness, was keen to cut. The mere act of holding it calmed her nerves a touch and she looked at it for a moment in silence, her breathing slowing.

'This is madness,' she murmured to herself.

The first cut is the worst, Lennox had once told her. Survival is severance in this world. She didn't even tremble as she cut the ropey stitches and dragged them from her skin, the sting of it reminding her of her ties to this world, this _real_ world. By the time that she reached the last one, the intensity of the itch was gone, and Quinn was calm once more. Serosanguinous fluid trickled from the neat, symmetrical pinpricks like bloody tears upon her pale skin.

Quinn released a shuddering breath and leant her forehead against the cold glass of the mirror.

'What have you done?'

Rachel's voice sounded almost frightened, as though she were waking from a dream and did not know whether she had reached reality or not.

Quinn started, pulling back from the mirror with a tension that stiffened each of her limbs. She met the dark eyes in the mirror; saw the concern plain as day and shrank from it. Rachel's hand, reaching to touch her shoulder, hesitated. They were far from each other somehow, trapped uncertainly between waking and dreaming. Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it once more. A million words sprung to her lips to be spoken; but the ones that finally came forth were the ones that could only be spoken in the dark. She needed Rachel to know the truth, she needed her to understand.

'Roy didn't kill Joseph Waters,' she whispered; the words bursting from her as the larvae from stinking, rotting flesh. It was the uncomfortable itch beneath the skin that she could never escape.

'What?'

But Rachel didn't understand, she couldn't. She had never been to a place where you rot from the inside, where the darkness eats away beneath the shell. Quinn had. Quinn knew her own enemy was truly within her, that dark and grieving part of her that had not stopped hurting since the day of the fire, a part of her that would never stop hurting now.

Her lips were dry; as were her eyes; her tongue. Ghostly in the moonlight, she placed the scalpel down, the bloody strands of the stitches about it. She remembered the weight of the gun in her hand; remembered the feel of the trigger, the surge of adrenaline.

'I did.'

And the horrible hollowness of those words seemed to fill her up, filled her up and spilt over with dark self-loathing; for she had killed a man in cold blood, and that was something that she could never undo.

* * *

><p>'How're you doing?'<p>

In the bustle of the busy coffee shop Santana felt a strange sense of normalcy, as though the events of the last few weeks had never occurred. A sardonic smile twisted her lips.

'Me?' she asked with a smirk, 'I'm just peachy.'

'You quit your job,' Jasper stated, his coffee sitting untouched before him.

She sighed, leaning back in the chair. The world had kept turning around her and she felt as though she was somehow stuck, just as he was, in what they had done. It didn't feel right for life to go on as it had done, so easily.

'I couldn't go back there,' she admitted, 'not after what happened. Not after I found those men dead…'

She picked up the cup; warmed her hands against it, but did not bring it to her lips.

'We are trying to get Carlos back to school; if he misses any more time then I'm afraid that he'll have to repeat the year… and it is good for him to have a routine again, and see his friends. To try to forget what has happened…'

Jasper smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

'I think I miss him,' he said finally, 'I never really liked kids, but… your little one is alright.'

Santana felt a warm glow come over her as she thought of her son. There was a ferociousness that was associated with her feelings for Carlos that was more intense than anything she had ever felt prior to being a parent. She loved him intensely, but more than that, she knew that she would lay down her life for him.

'It's amazing,' she said softly, 'being a parent… but it is terrifying too. You have such a strong need to protect your child and it's such an overwhelming feeling…'

She trailed off, her eyes drifting to the window but not seeing the activity outside.

'It makes you wonder what Quinn's parents were thinking, doesn't it?' Jasper commented darkly.

'They loved her,' Santana stated certainly, thinking of Judy Fabray and her frightening, icy demeanour, 'in their own ways…'

He picked at a cuticle, looking down at his nails.

'Must be hard for her to live with that… knowing what her parents did to each other.'

It was the first time that they had spoken aloud to each other about it, but Santana just shrugged her narrow shoulders.

'You know Quinn,' she sighed, 'she thinks that she's fine. Just _fine_. She won't talk about it, not to me, not to Brit; no matter how hard she is finding it... but she will get through to the other side – she just needs time… and love… and support…'

'And Rachel,' he added.

The Latina smiled.

'And Rachel,' she agreed, looking down into the dark depths of the coffee in her mug. Somehow the aroma did not entice her today, it simply nauseated her, reminded her of the cheap plastic cups of it that she had drunk whilst waiting in the hospital whilst Quinn was still fighting for her life on the intensive care unit.

'Have you seen the papers?' Jasper asked after a moment, changing the subject from their mutual friend. 'Over one hundred arrests…'

'I know,' Santana's face suddenly lost the resignation that had fallen over it before, '_theoretically_ mafia-related, and some of the most powerful people in the country… the DA's playing a dangerous game. He's either very stupid…'

'…or very brave,' Jasper finished for her, his face lighting up a little more, 'it's inspiring, don't you think?'

Santana rolled her eyes.

'It's only inspiring if he doesn't get his body hacked up with a chainsaw by some Mafia hitman…'

'So cynical,' Jasper laughed indulgently, though both of them could hear the false-cheeriness in his tone. The cold reality of the Mafia world was still so close to them; the blood still stained upon their hands. 'I didn't see Roy's face amongst them.'

'Vanished,' Santana murmured, 'like a ghost…'

Jasper shook his head thoughtfully.

'I think that we will see him again,' he replied certainly, 'sometime, somewhere. We will see him again.'

* * *

><p>Rachel's heels clicked upon the linoleum floors as she marched down the corridor towards Quinn's hospital room. The blonde had finally been moved down from the Intensive Care unit to a normal ward and Rachel could almost start to believe that she had somehow been spared by fate. The dark revelations that had unwound over the last week, however, were winding tighter around the blonde, the barbs pressing in deeper to the skin, and whatever Rachel did to try to ease the garrotte, it just seemed to tighten further.<p>

Judy Fabray's sinister connections; Mickey Quinn's role in the Fabrays' murders, but, worst of all, Quinn's own terrible responsibility for Waters' death seemed to silently pre-occupy the blonde's thoughts, and Rachel was running out of ways to reach her.

They didn't speak about it, but it pressed down heavily upon them, Rachel could see that. She just couldn't find the words, for there were no words that didn't echo, hollowly, around and shatter on the floor. Her own helplessness made her irritable, and the combination of the two uncomfortable feelings made her controlling.

The singer flashed a tight smile at the physiotherapist as they passed each other in the corridor, coming to a pause by the door to Quinn's room, balancing her coffee and the newspapers in her arms to free up a hand to press the handle when a sound from within froze her. It was laughter; Quinn's laughter. Quite why it struck her so painfully to hear the blonde's laughter, she could not fathom, but it felt like an icy shaft had been stabbed into her.

'…and then the goddamn Jeep broke down…' It was Jessica's voice, high-pitched with the excitement of the story, that Rachel picked out first and felt her hackles rise.

'It did not break down,' Quinn objected lightly, and Rachel's heart twisted a little more at the smile that she could hear in the blonde's voice. Was it so awful that Quinn was smiling? She wondered to herself chidingly, doesn't she deserve to smile after everything? '…it was just your terrible Aussie driving…'

'No! It was those _terrible_, bumpy strips of _earth_ that they call roads, Fabray, which destroyed the axel…'

Rachel could almost hear Quinn's eye-roll in the tone of voice she used next, and her own jealousy surged once more. Maybe it was just that she couldn't seem to be able to make Quinn laugh at the moment, that she could barely make her smile in a way that reached her eyes... It was because of all the things between them that they somehow couldn't talk about, and so now they hung, stagnant, in the air. More than the twinge of jealousy that shot through her was the cold fear that trickled insidiously through her at the mention of Cambodia.

She abruptly pressed down on the handle and opened the door, striding into the room as though she hadn't been eavesdropping.

'Good morning, baby.'

The blonde looked up from the hospital bed and flashed her a smile that crinkled the lines about her bright eyes. She looked better, Rachel thought appraisingly as she set the coffee and newspapers down on the table before going to kiss the woman in greeting. Quinn's skin, in this light, was almost aglow with the warmth that Rachel associated with her, not the terrible washed-out grey of the night.

Jessica raised her eyebrows a fraction as Quinn captured the brunette's hand and pulled her down to sit on the bed beside her, raising herself up to kiss her cheek.

'Good morning,' the blonde murmured, the words low.

Their fingers were tangled together, and Rachel felt the anxiety that had knotted so tightly within her start to unravel once more. It was still Quinn, she reminded herself, it was still her Quinn, and the healing, however long it took, would not take her away. The hazel eyes held hers and Rachel released the breath that had constricted in her chest; there was so much promise in that look, so much that she wanted to hold the blonde to her, and be held in return. Instead she tightened her grip on Quinn's hand.

_I'm never letting you go again_, she thought, hoping that Quinn could somehow hear her.

Jessica cleared her throat, and the moment was broken, a small smile quirking the corners of the blonde's lips.

'Sorry, Jess.'

Rachel turned, reluctantly, towards the Australian, taking in, for the first time the laptop open on the bedside table open on a serious-looking powerpoint presentation.

Her curiosity piqued.

'What's this?' She asked, leaning closer to the screen to read the words.

'This,' Jessica's lips twisted into a genuine smile, 'is our presentation for the World Health Summit…'

'The what?'

'World Health Summit,' Quinn echoed, 'it's being held in New York this week.'

'It's the pre-eminent international forum for global health policy, and this bright spark,' Jessica smirked at Quinn as she spoke, 'secured us a spot for an oral presentation.'

Rachel twisted round, outrage on her face.

'You didn't tell me this!'

Quinn blinked, bewildered.

'I… I didn't think it was something you would be interested in,' she stuttered, confused. In fairness, there had been a lot of other things on her mind since she had arrived in New York and this was not one of them. 'Why else did you think that Jess was here?'

'I… I just…' Rachel looked between the two of them. There were many reasons that she believed Jessica was in New York, many more reasons than Quinn was aware of, but this had not been one of them. She pursed her lips to cut off the unnecessary words. 'You are presenting?'

'I am,' Jessica seemed amused by her confusion and Rachel glared at her. 'But it's Quinn's presentation… her vision…'

'Don't make it sound like such a big deal,' the blonde protested, and an unusual note of embarrassment caught Rachel's attention. She glanced back at her girlfriend again and noted the faint blush creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks. It intrigued her even more.

'But it is a big deal,' Jessica insisted, rolling her eyes, 'it's a huge deal...'

'Jess…'

'No, Quinn, why can't you just tell her?'

The door opened suddenly and unexpectedly, cutting off the Australian as they all turned to the woman who stood, framed by the light of the corridor. Quinn's expression seemed to close, as though the lightness and enthusiasm she had glowed with moments before had been extinguished.

'Dr Lennox,' the measured words filled the sudden vacuum between them. Her once-mentor looked serious and folded her hands upon each other, hovering on the threshold between the rooms.

'Can you give us a moment?' the surgeon asked uncharacteristically, looking first at Jess and then Rachel. Though very present at the hospital in the first few days following the operation, Lennox had distanced herself since Quinn had awoken, returning, Rachel had believed, to Boston. She glanced at her girlfriend, but Quinn's expression had still not changed and Rachel's heart sank a little as she wondered what difficulties lay within this complicated relationship.

'Sure,' she replied, sending the blonde a pointed look as she stood to leave the room once more, taking her coffee with her, and the Australian on her heels. 'I'll be back in twenty.'

Gripping the coffee cup in one hand, Rachel started back down the corridor, uncertain as to her destination but aware that she had no intention of staying anywhere near Jessica, however, instead of letting her walk away, the Australian just quickened her pace.

'You don't like me,' Jessica said bluntly as they walked.

The statement surprised Rachel so much that she almost tripped. _Almost_. Instead she stopped in her tracks and looked at the brunette incredulously.

'And that _surprises_ you?'

The same smug expression that Rachel had rapidly come to despise came over Jessica's face.

'Not really,' she conceded, then with a sigh she took Rachel by the wrist and tugged her towards the empty waiting area. 'Look, we haven't even had a chance to talk…'

'I don't want to talk to you,' the singer replied.

Jessica rolled her eyes, sitting down on the edge of one of the chairs and gesturing for Rachel to do the same. After a moment of stubborn hesitation, the singer did.

'Because you think that I am a threat?'

'No,' Rachel replied firmly, her dark eyes narrowing, 'you are not a threat to me, Jessica. You are not a threat, because I have finally found Quinn again, and nothing – and I really mean _nothing -_ is going to take her away from me.' The muscle in her jaw twitched as she held the green gaze. 'You don't realise what you are messing with here…'

'And you don't realise what you are doing,' the Australian replied softly.

The silence stretched between them and Rachel's fierce expression did not change. Jessica leant back in the chair, breaking the eye contact.

'Ignoring the years that she has been away does not make them disappear,' she stated finally, 'like it or not, Rachel, Quinn has built a _life_ out there, she has a family, a future… that won't vanish just because you don't want it to exist. They need her…'

'And I _love_ her,' the singer hissed.

Jessica's energy seemed to seep out of her and an expression akin to pity flickered across her features.

'I love her,' Rachel repeated more softly, 'I have loved her for so many years…'

The Australian folded her hands in her lap, watching them for a moment as she turned the words over and over again in her head. When she looked up there was nothing but solemnity on her features.

'Do you love her enough to support her?' she asked quietly, 'to help her become this wonderful, inspirational person that she is fighting to be? She has come through so much… but has so much still to do… she has so much to give…'

She pushed her dark hair from her eyes and looked at Rachel directly, the challenge evident even though her words were barely a whisper.

'Do you love her enough to let her?'

But what she really meant to say, what they both heard, was slightly more challenging.

Do you love her enough to let her go?

* * *

><p>Feeling at a slight disadvantage, being rather immobile as she was, Quinn attempted to sit up straighter in her hospital gown, before conceding that there was no way in which she could get onto equal ground with the towering cardiothoracic surgeon.<p>

'You look,' Lennox's cool eyes drifted over her as she leant back against the window-frame, 'better.'

Quinn nodded almost imperceptibly. In honesty, it felt as though she had been cycling through the various levels of hell that she'd learnt about in her childhood, in some attempt to reach the real world again.

'I'm…' she searched for the right word for a second before settling on it, 'I'm amazed to be alive.'

Lennox appraised her silently, her eyes narrowing at the choice. She tapped her nails against her arm.

'Why me?' she asked finally, watching the younger woman's expression; it didn't even flicker in comprehension. 'Why send it to me, Quinn?'

The hazel eyes met hers and for a moment she thought that Quinn was going to deny all knowledge of the letter, of the cascade of events into which she had ensnared her mentor.

'My connection to Cary?' Lennox suggested, 'was that it? Or Harvard? The Alpha Omega Alpha?'

Quinn shook her head, glancing down at the sheets upon the bed, a faint, infuriating smile playing at the corner of her lips.

'No,' she said softly, 'none of that.'

'Then _what?_'

Quinn straightened, her eyes flashing up to catch Letitia's gaze.

'Because I trusted you,' she replied shortly.

She shook her head, shrugging her shoulders as Lennox just continued to watch her, suspicion written across her features.

'You are a cold, hard bitch, most of the time,' Quinn conceded, 'you are opinionated; and vicious; and driven; and manipulative.' She narrowed her eyes. 'You're underhanded… Don't think that I didn't figure out that it was you who convinced Carlos to burn my passport…'

Lennox cocked her head, her keen blue eyes suddenly sparking with interest.

'How do you figure that one?' she probed.

Quinn raised an eyebrow.

'Are you saying that it wasn't?' she asked pointedly, but instead of replying, Lennox folded her arms across her chest. She raised her chin a fraction.

'The letter, Quinn,' she pressed, 'why _me?_'

'Because I trusted you,' the younger blonde repeated, 'I trusted you to do the right thing… You have had to be so strong to get where you are… I trusted you to do the right thing, even if it was the hardest thing to do… and you did. You did.'

'He could die for this,' Lennox said softly, 'Cary, I mean. A DA going up against the mob? His head will roll.'

Quinn licked her dry lips. The threat did not seem far from the truth and she could only hope that the public profile of the man and his aims would protect him.

'He's a good man.'

Lennox allowed herself a small, self-indulgent smile.

'"And all that is necessary for the triumph of evil, is for good men to do nothing".'

Though spoken quietly, the words seemed to hover with a hint of sarcasm in the air between them, between the girl in the hospital gown who suddenly seemed so young and the woman by the window. Like so many of the relationships in her life, Quinn wondered at this one, at how this acerbic woman had somehow become entangled with her, through the years. If she was pondering the strange relationship between them, she could tell that it was also hovering in Lennox's mind as well, how insidiously it had grown, and into what...

Soft words and gentle phrasing were not their realms, and uncomfortable in the silence, Letitia brought to the fore the contentious subject that had been the source of their disagreement when Quinn had first returned to the US.

'Will you return to Cambodia?' she asked directly, and then watched as Quinn blinked, her face dropping in uncertainty. Strangely, it was a question that Quinn herself had kept far from her own mind, shying from the difficult choices she did not know how to make.

'I…' she started, before realising that the answer was almost impossible to determine. It flooded her with coldness, a baseless fear that she couldn't shrug off. 'I don't know.'

* * *

><p>'No! Absolutely. Categorically. Irrevocably. No.'<p>

As Santana approached Quinn's hospital room a day later the loud voice of Rachel Berry drifted out and filled the corridor. She glanced over at her wife who met her gaze with concern and could not decide whether to speed up towards the hospital room or turn around and leave.

'I don't need your permission, Rachel,' Quinn's voice was clear and cold, but it did not fool Santana; that tone never would and she somehow doubted that it would fool Rachel either.

'If you know what is good for you, Fabray, you will listen to me,' the singer snapped back, the words probably sounding more threatening than she intended them to.

'Stop trying to control me…'

'I'm not trying to control you!'

'You are treating me like an invalid!'

'_Because_ you _are_ an invalid!' Rachel's voice rose another octave, if that was even possible, and Santana winced. 'You keep pushing yourself and pushing yourself, Quinn, but you are not ready. Your physios agree; your nurses agree; your doctors agree. You are pushing yourself too hard…'

'No, I am not!' Finally the icy tone cracked and Quinn's voice rose, 'you may not remember, Rachel, but I have done this before. I was stuck in that goddamn wheelchair for months and if I had not pushed myself then do you think that I would be walking now?'

'That is not the same thing…'

'_Of course_ it's the same thing,' she replied intensely, 'you are trying to control me because you are scared …'

'I'm scared because you almost died…'

'No,' Quinn snapped back as Santana grabbed Brittany's arm, halting her from crossing the threshold into the room to interrupt the argument, '_no_, you are scared because you think that I'm going to leave… you're scared because you think that the minute I get out of this hospital, I could go. But I am not leaving you, Rachel… I am not going anywhere.'

It was a surprising silence that followed the statement, and Santana took the opportunity to grab Brittany's hand and swing into the room, taking in the scene in one sweeping glance. Rachel, of course, had her hands on her hips and an expression on her face that was a mixture of fury and dismay. Quinn, on the other hand, just looked exhausted. She had propped herself unsteadily against the window sill and, in the faded blue of the hospital gown, looked much younger than she was. Santana could not help but agree with Rachel's grim assessment; Quinn was pushing herself too hard, she looked almost ready to collapse.

'What's all the shouting about?' Santana asked lightly, looking between the two. Rachel's jaw tensed, her brown eyes seeming even darker than usual as she stared at her girlfriend from across the room. Quinn did not look away, but her usual fire was gone, her gaze just steady and resigned.

'I need some water,' Rachel finally stated, the expression on her face tight as she turned towards the door. She paused by the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder at her girlfriend who watched her warily.

'The answer is still no,' she stated tightly, turning to walk out as Quinn shouted after her.

'I'm not asking for your permission!'

But the words came out weakly, as though her muscles couldn't quite be relied upon to project the force of her voice. The moment that Rachel was out of sight, the blonde sank back against the window frame, as though the argument had sapped all of her energy.

'What did you do to make her so mad?' Brittany asked with raised eyebrows. It had been a while since they had seen a full, blow-out argument between the two women and there was something unsettling about it. 'She looks about ready to… to…'

But she couldn't think of the right word for quite how furious Rachel had looked. Quinn sighed, carefully manoeuvring herself to sit down upon the chair.

'She's driving me crazy,' she admitted softly, a hint of guilt deepening her expression, 'I know that it's because she's scared, and worried, and everything that has happened has been so intense… but she is driving me crazy.'

Brittany walked round the end to the bed and perched upon the edge.

'It's because she loves you,' she reminded the other woman gently.

Quinn released another breath, squeezing the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and her thumb.

'And I'm being a bitch,' she agreed softly, glancing over at Santana who just watched her thoughtfully. 'I'm being a bitch. It's just that… I have been on my own for so long that it is strange to have someone… '

She drifted off and Santana snorted softly, rolling her eyes.

'Well, you are just going to have to get used to it, Q,' she stated bluntly, 'because Rachel Berry is as stubborn as you are and has a much louder voice. She loves you... so damn much.'

Quinn allowed herself a small smile, 'can you go and make sure she is ok, San?'

Santana raised a sceptical eyebrow, looking reluctant.

'You really want me to go and try to talk to her while she is in this kind of mood?'

* * *

><p>When Santana found Rachel in a quiet corner of the hospital coffee shop her expression was dark. She steadily watched the Latina approach, her hand tightening around the large bottle of mineral water that she held, half-full.<p>

'I'm being overbearing and controlling,' she stated when the lawyer slipped into the chair opposite her, 'I know.'

Santana shrugged one of her shoulders.

'You always were very bossy,' she teased gently. 'Quinn should be used to it by now.'

'Even as I say these things, I think of how terrible it is that I am being so dictatorial, but then I can't seem to help myself… She makes me so mad, Santana, so _furious_. I just want to tie her to that bed and keep her protected and safe until she has recovered…'

Rachel's eyes seemed to be swirling with conflicting emotions and Santana's heart went out to her. With every day that Quinn improved, the uncertainty of the future seemed to grow and for someone, like Rachel, who had believed so emphatically that she could control the course of her life, the ambiguity of it was unsettling.

'I'd be the same,' Santana admitted; anyone would if they had almost lost someone they cared that much for. 'Hell, Berry, I would probably be the one arguing with her if you hadn't fulfilled that role already. She is lucky that she is not getting it from both of us.'

Rachel's expression revealed a hint of a smile at her words, but it was gone again in a flash.

'They want her to do a presentation at this conference on Friday,' she stated, eyes darkening once more. 'That is what we were arguing about.'

'What conference?' Santana frowned, 'and who's "_they_"?'

'It's some global health thing. Jessica was going to present at it, but she wants Quinn to… I think that has been her angle all along. It's Quinn's work apparently, her proposal about achieving an integrated health system in third world countries, so presenting it is a big deal,' Rachel replied ominously, 'even Lennox is encouraging her – she thinks that it would be a good move for Quinn's career…'

'I thought Lennox was trying to persuade her to come back over here,' Santana interrupted with confusion.

'I never know what Lennox is up to,' Rachel admitted irritably, 'but either way… Quinn can't do it. She's not well enough – she can't even walk down the corridor without needing to stop and rest for a few minutes…'

Santana found herself rubbing at her temples; she understood Rachel's perspective and she even agreed with her on a purely emotional level. Quinn should be gently recuperating, she felt as strongly about that as Rachel did, and there was a strong desire to keep her locked up in the hospital until she did so… but then, she also knew Quinn.

Her expression must have conveyed her doubt for Rachel straightened in her seat.

'She's not going,' she repeated firmly.

* * *

><p>When Friday came, Quinn found herself having second thoughts about insisting on attending the conference. In her more rational heart she acknowledged, as she reluctantly settled into the horribly familiar confines of the wheelchair, that she did not have a strong desire to give the presentation; it was more that she was stubborn and had felt the need to exercise her independence. Perhaps not the most admirable of her qualities, she admitted.<p>

The wind was brisk and brought a flush to her cheeks, but she wouldn't complain about it, not after being so long within the stuffy confines of the hospital.

'Feeling ready?' Jessica asked, shutting the car door.

'Of course,' Quinn lied, as she ran her fingers along the familiar smooth metal of the wheels, before muttering to herself, 'I hate wheelchairs; I've always hated them. They make me feel so… irrationally frightened...'

She trailed off, lost in that time, over a decade ago now, when she had been told that she may never walk again. The horror of it always sickened her.

Jessica smirked, holding onto the handles and starting to push, oblivious to the blonde's dark thoughts.

'Too bad,' she replied unsympathetically, 'it was part of the deal… you promised her…'

And it was true, she had promised, but of all Rachel's demands, somehow this one was the hardest one for her to agree to. She clasped her hands in her lap stiffly, letting Jessica push her up and into the building, through to the reception that was bustling with men and women in suits, the plastic delegate badges hanging about their necks. She ran a thumb across the silver scar on the back of her hand, feeling the uneven silkiness of it. Now, and only now, she was starting to realise what it was that she had agreed to and nerves twisted uncomfortably in her belly.

'Dr Fabray?'

A gentleman cut through the crowd towards her, broad and smiling, he held out his hand for her to take.

'Philip Wang,' he introduced himself enthusiastically, as she shook it, 'I'm so excited that you could make it…'

Quinn's lips twisted into a smile reflexively.

'Call me Quinn,' she told him, 'and this is…'

'We've met,' Jessica interrupted her with a grin, 'this morning when we set up the presentation.'

'We are so excited that you could make it…'

The nervousness that was fluttering within her seemed to intensify as he draped the identity badge about her neck. Suddenly, the idea of giving a public presentation at such a prestigious event was more daunting than she had thought that it would be.

'I only have leave from the hospital for an hour and a half,' she said dryly.

Another of Rachel's stipulations.

'Not a second longer,' Jessica murmured.

'I know,' Philip nodded, 'which is why we have brought forward your presentation…'

The sound of the intercom chiming at that moment interrupted him and Quinn's heart sank with dull dread.

'Can delegates please make their way to the main hall for the next presentation,' the monotonous voice boomed across the foyer, before repeating itself. 'The presentation will start in five minutes...'

Quinn swallowed down against the panic that was rising up within her. This, she realised ruefully, was probably some kind of karmic punishment for her own stubbornness.

Her mouth went dry.

'Five minutes?'

He had gripped the handles of the wheelchair and was already pushing her through the crowd of people flocking towards the hall.

'Five minutes.'

* * *

><p>The conference hall was dark, with an echoing quality that reminded Rachel of an aeroplane-hanger. It was much bigger than she had expected, but more than that, the number of delegates attending had far surpassed her expectations. The rows and rows of seats were already full and people had spilt out into the aisles, leaning against the walls. The podium, beneath the bright glare of the stage lights, was backed with huge blue and crimson banners. "World Health Summit 2024' they screamed in bold letters, 'New York City'.<p>

'This is insane,' Jasper murmured beside her, and she glanced at him with a frown.

'There are a lot more people than I thought,' she agreed tightly. Santana's hand slipped into hers, squeezing it gently, and she was surprised at the gesture of support. Though she and the Latina were undoubtedly close, Santana was far from demonstrative with her affection. She squeezed back appreciatively.

'That's not what I meant,' Jasper replied, oblivious to the tightness of her comment, gesturing over towards the door where a group of men were pushing their way through to the back of the crowd. 'It's the press… the media.'

'You're kidding me!' Santana hissed, twisting her body around to see.

Rachel's sinking feeling only seemed to intensify at seeing the flash of the camera lens against the light. She had a bad feeling about this; she had had a bad feeling about this from the start. Despite her objections, Quinn had insisted on attending, and the two of them had been caught in a tense battle of wills ever since. Sexual tension, Brittany had insisted it was, but to Rachel it was much more than that, much more, and yet she couldn't quite put her finger on what.

A bell sounded and the lights dimmed, a hush falling over the crowd as it did.

Still, Rachel realised, there was no sign of Quinn. Not yet.

Her heart, she realised, was hammering within her chest, a darker kind of nervousness than she had right before she performed. Her hand tightened again around Santana's and she bit her lip. Just as she had made Quinn agree to her conditions, her girlfriend had made her promise one thing: that none of them would attend the conference during her speech. Unfortunately, Rachel had not been able to keep herself away; somewhere, buried and hidden well, was the nonsensical fear that Joseph Waters, or another faceless hit-man, would be within this crowd, ready to kill the blonde doctor the minute she reached the podium, and that fear was not something that would easily go away.

'I am honoured to have the opportunity to introduce our next speaker,' one of the panel had stood up, the spotlight intensifying on him as the real-time video image of his face filled the two screens that flanked the stage, 'born in Ohio state, this inspirational young woman graduated with honours from Harvard Medical School and took a brave detour from what promised to be a highly successful medical career, to travel instead to Cambodia where she has aided with the concept and construction of a free-access hospital and children's home…'

As he spoke, Rachel could make out the blonde figure in the wheelchair being guided up onto the podium. She felt her chest tighten.

'We are lucky to have her here to present to us her ambitious concept of an integrated and sustainable health care system in the Third World…'

Rachel's eyes narrowed as watched Quinn push herself up, the pale woman faltering slightly as she tried to stand before steadying herself. Jessica passed something to her, offering herself forward to help her before being rejected by the stubborn blonde. Rachel's spine became rigid.

'Don't even think about it, Fabray…' she muttered under her breath, hoping that Quinn would somehow hear her warning and decide instead to give the speech from the wheelchair as she had promised she would.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' the man announced, and, leaning heavily on the black cane for support Quinn slowly walked forwards, step by steady step, towards the podium. 'May I present to you… Dr Quinn Fabray…'

'I'm going to kill her,' Rachel murmured as Quinn reached the podium, gripping it hard with both hands to keep herself balanced.

As the audience started to clap, Rachel realised that perhaps they knew more about Quinn and her background than she was initially aware of. Expectation seemed to hover electrically in the air about them as they waited for her to start to speak.

'What did I miss?' Brittany's breathless voice came from behind her as she slipped in. The tall blonde had been at a press conference for the documentary during the morning, and had rushed to attend in time.

'Oh,' her pale blue eyes widened with surprise, before anyone had answered her, 'she's _standing_, I thought that...'

'She's not meant to be,' Rachel replied darkly.

Santana glanced at her, smirking, before twisting around to give her wife a kiss.

'Quinn is totally getting a spanking when she gets home,' she teased. Brittany's eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled.

'Well, that will sort out the sexual tension between them,' she replied lightly.

'Shhh,' Rachel hissed as Quinn's face looked out across the conference hall from the video images on either side of the podium, her clear, strong voice finding its rhythm as she began by thanking the organisation for the opportunity to present. The camera bulbs started to flash and Rachel tensed.

'Life is made up of choices,' the blonde doctor started, the shiny red of the cut healing on her cheek visible despite the make-up, 'and I will admit that I have found my choices to often be difficult ones…'

Rachel felt herself swell with warmth as Quinn's voice, in its captivating manner, swept her away. It was bittersweet to listen to the rise and fall of strong emotion that shaped the words and phrases, guiding her away to a place that Quinn had never taken her to before, a gravelly honesty and belief in her tone. With a pang of conscience that Rachel realised that she had always avoided the subject of Cambodia, of the project that the blonde had been shaping out there, because she had never wanted to realise how important it was to the woman that she loved. She had never wanted to acknowledge that it may, ultimately, steal the blonde away; the years had changed them both, and, for Quinn, who had left New York so broken and hopeless years before, a certain kind of redemption had been found in the work that she had performed. She had found a purpose, away from Rachel, away from the US, and it was a purpose that had not gone away, even though she had returned to New York. It started an ache deep within Rachel's chest, behind her breastbone, and rose up as a lump in her throat. The raw passion in Quinn's voice hurt her with every word; hurt her because it was something that she had never allowed the blonde to share, because she was afraid that it would tear them apart.

'…health is a basic human right, and as such healthcare should be available to all, regardless of where a human being is born, or as to how wealthy they may be…'

As Rachel looked about the crowded hall, she could see the glow from the stage reflected upon the expectant faces looking up. It struck her then that the last time she had seen the blonde on a stage was in McKinley High, all those years ago, during her captivating performance of Macbeth. She found her hands twisting in her lap. Now, as she looked, she could see the mannerisms of Judy Fabray reflected in the straight and certain way that Quinn was standing, in the set of her shoulders and the furrowing of her brow. It sent a shiver down her spine... and there, somewhere in the eyes, in the twist of the mouth, was the image of the man that she had only ever seen in newspaper print. Mickey Quinn; Judy Fabray. Rachel felt the nausea rise up in her, seeing, as if for the first time, the strands that held Quinn together, the charismatic leader that she had such potential to become, just as, she imagined, her parents had once been for a much more sinister purpose.

Quinn's hands, on the edges of the podium, were tight; Rachel could see the straining effort that it was taking to keep her standing, but the rest of the hall was oblivious to it. They were oblivious to everything but the weave of her words, the strong thread of her voice.

'… and as such, one individual can make a difference to thousands,' she paused, her hazel eyes sweeping the hall seriously, 'and together… _together_, we can change the world.'

The hairs had risen across Rachel's arms, and she held her breath with expectation. The silence, following Quinn's last word, seemed to swell across the hall as they waited for her to break the spell that she had cast over them.

'Thank you,' the blonde nodded a moment later, the words sounding to Rachel like a sigh of relief, 'the floor is open for questions.'

But instead of the controlled silence that Rachel had expected, clapping broke out at one edge of the hall and swept across it like wild fire until the noise was almost deafening. She looked on, with wide eyes, as people got to their feet, their faces aglow. Beside her, Santana stood, whooping gamely along with the rest of the delegates as Rachel watched on in confusion. Quinn's expression, she noted, reflected her own, a faint blush rising up her neck in that adorable way that it did.

'Ladies and gentlemen…' the panel tried to interrupt, but the ovation continued and with a small smile Rachel found herself getting to her feet as well, starting to clap. 'Ladies and gentlemen…'

'What the hell is this?' Jasper laughed over the noise.

Brittany smiled softly, looking across the sea of people, at the cameras that were flashing and the faces that were lit up by the stage, by the reflected light of Quinn's image. A powerful emotion had gripped the hall, a joint elation that had started to burn.

'This,' she replied certainly, her eyes welling with unshed tears, '_this_ is hope.'

But all that Rachel could feel was the swell of cold certainty within her… the cold certainty that beneath the applause she could hear the steady rhythm of the future tripping ever nearer, and behind the glow of those hazel eyes was not New York but the paddy fields and great expanses of the Khmer provinces. She wished that she had never heard the passion in Quinn's voice; that she could pretend not to know how important it was to her.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Please review.<strong>


	34. Endlessly

**Thank you for the reviews - and for sticking with this story all this way, it feels like it has been a long journey. **

**(And a particular thanks for the pep-talk that got this last chapter written lol)**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 34 - Endlessly<span>

The rain formed rivulets against the glass, reflecting the glow of the streetlights outside. The storms had not passed; not yet. Quinn sat in the chair by the window, looking out. It was quiet, but for the sound of the rain, and if she closed her eyes she could imagine, once more, being in Cambodia. The monsoon beating a pulse against the red earth, the percussion of it upon the tin roofs.

'Troubled thoughts?'

The voice from the door pulled her from her musings and an easy smile relaxed her features as she looked over her shoulder at him. Carlos Lopez had always been a gentle soul; a man whose quiet kindness had offset her childhood. In the time that she had known him Santana's father had been more than a rock amid the waves; he had been a beacon.

'Just thinking,' she replied softly, the self-deprecation in her tone, 'thinking thoughts that float away.'

He had the strong features of a younger man, lines about his eyes that crinkled as he smiled. It had always been clear to Quinn that the Lopez fierceness had come from the women in that family rather than the men. He settled beside her and looked out towards the rain, through the glass to the grey fog of New York City.

There was never the need to speak with Carlos; it was that strong and quiet reassurance that Quinn enjoyed whenever she was in his presence. It reminded her, poignantly, of the months after the fire, those months that she had spent at the Lopez house trapped within her own tangled web, young and angry and afraid.

'Maribel worries about you,' he said quietly, his brown eyes watching her faint reflection in the glass rather than turning to her directly.

Quinn exhaled gently, her thoughts turning to the warm woman that she owed so much to. They had taught her love, Maribel and Carlos Lopez, they had taught her affection in the way that her own family had been incapable of. Without them, Quinn did not know who or what she would have become.

'I'm stronger than she thinks that I am,' the blonde reminded him.

She turned to look at him directly, at the way that his dark hair curled over his collar, flecked now with more grey than black. She reached across to him, covering his hand with her own. Years had passed, and now she sat by him a woman rather than a child; the woman that he had always known that she would become.

'That is what she is afraid of,' he responded lightly, his lips curving into a faint smile.

His eyes drifted down to her hand, the silky scar through the pale skin.

'We know that there is more to this than what you, or Santana, have told us,' he continued softly, his warm brown eyes observing her as she stiffened at the words. 'We know you, Quinn. We have done since you were barely old enough to walk, and we have loved you for just as long. You are our daughter… if only through love, rather than blood.'

Quinn felt the lump start to form unexpectedly in her throat, the thickness of emotion. For so many years she had watched Santana with her family and envied her, for so many years… And yet the words never came easily. She was still, so often, behind the white walls of that house; she still stood alone on the marble floor, as isolated and single-minded as any who had been born to be a Fabray. She squeezed his hand, glancing down and away.

'Everything good that I have ever done…' she frowned at the words, swallowing them back, 'anything good that I am… I learnt from you.'

Hazel eyes were warm as she looked at him.

'You taught me to look beyond myself… beyond the world that I was born into,' Quinn's words fell over each other, 'you showed me that I could be so much more than the person that I was. I am so grateful to you for that…'

Beneath her soft fingertips, his skin was rough and calloused, but it was warm. It was warm and she held onto him gently, in the way that he had once done when she was trying to re-learn how to walk, how to survive.

'I'll be fine,' she promised him quietly, and for the first time in a long time she really believed the words as she spoke them, 'tell Maribel that I'll be fine… because I will always protect the people that I love, and the values that you have taught me.'

* * *

><p>Brittany folded her hands in her lap, an unusual anxiety fluttering within her. She had always been strong when it came to the things that she believed and she had always been fearless about them. When she had been a child, she had been gentle and agreeable; day dreaming in the corner of the room whilst the other children played, but even at such an early age, once she had made a decision she rarely, if ever, went back on it.<p>

Watching the Young Idealists now sent a wave of nausea through her. The documentary had been made for reasons that were not entirely selfless, and the events of the last couple of months may have been avoided if she had not done so. The film had fractured something, something that would not heal, and she feared that her recklessness had broken the unfailing trust between her and Quinn. She was not naïve enough to believe that it would recover.

'Jesus,' Jasper breathed from the chair next to hers.

She had invited him to the press screening selfishly, knowing that he had wanted to see the film and wanting the moral support that he would give her. The flickering light of the large screen reflected on his strong features, just as it glanced off the faceless men and women that filled the audience. The name Quinn Fabray was still of high interest it seemed and they watched her easy smile as it lit up the screen, captivating them with her raw and beautiful story.

Later, as they left the theatre, Jasper placed an arm about her shoulders, holding the umbrella high above their heads.

'Come on,' he urged, side stepping the puddles, 'I'll get you a drink.'

They ended up in a wine bar, a strange and hidden place below street level that Brittany had never heard of. The atmosphere was subdued, a low glow from the lamps atop the old wine barrels that served as tables and in the corner a woman sang softly to the melody from a small piano played beside her. Jasper helped Brittany from her coat before shrugging off his own. He signalled to the waiter and shortly, two champagne glasses appeared at their table.

'To your success,' he smiled easily at her.

She picked up the stem of the glass, her blue eyes following the lines of little bubbles that meandered through it.

'It feels like a high price to pay,' she replied.

Her thoughts were again on Quinn, on the chasm between them, and the new scars that cut across her soft skin.

Jasper placed the glass back down before taking even a sip.

'She has forgiven you,' he reminded her, 'she told you that.'

But Brittany just shook her head, a small, sad smile curving her lips.

'No,' she replied gently, her eyes fixed still on the pale golden liquid in the glass, 'she would like to forgive me… but she doesn't know how to. So, she just said the words and hoped that they were true.' She flicked her golden hair behind a shoulder, looking up to meet his eyes. 'And maybe in time they will become true... maybe that is how it works.'

Jasper leant his forearms down against the barrel, a thoughtful line creasing between his eyebrows. The time that they had spent together on the road between New York and the snowy isolation of Rachel's grandparent's house seemed like a half-forgotten dream now. Yet there was something there, a kinship between them that ran like a steely thread beneath the surface.

'You made that documentary out of love,' he stated, 'you can see it in every shot and angle. It's a fabulous piece of work, and you should be proud of it.'

He raised his glass once more, looking at her meaningfully.

'To your success,' he repeated, and this time she raised the glass with him and the sound of it rang out softly against the music.

Brittany's blue eyes crinkled at the edges as she allowed herself a shy smile.

'And your thoughts on it?' she asked softly.

She had been unable to share it with the people closest to her; with Santana or Rachel… or with Quinn. But now a new pair of eyes could see it afresh, could read it with her.

Jasper's face relaxed and Brittany wondered at how they had never really been friends before.

'It does what a documentary should do,' he replied seriously, 'it takes you into another world… it puts a human face on an important issue that we, as a society, should not be allowed to ignore.'

He took a sip of the champagne, but it tasted bitter against his tongue, and looked across at the singer in the corner for a moment as a shadow crossed his face. The soft familiarity of the bar and the feel of the grain of the oak barrel beneath his fingertips brought him comfort, a comfort that he had not realised that he needed.

'It's powerful,' he acknowledged softly, 'and heart-breaking to watch her…'

* * *

><p>Rachel's lips tasted of almonds.<p>

Quinn pushed her back breathlessly, against the wall of the apartment and closed her eyes to steady herself as Rachel's keys clattered loudly against the floor. The molten desire twisted up within her, burning within her belly; just the flash of those dark eyes, the curve of her lips, and she wished to let it consume them both.

She may have lost her strength through the weeks in the hospital, but she was strong enough to hold the brunette against the wall as she kissed her. The even rows of her teeth flashed as they nipped down against the soft skin of the brunette's neck…

'Quinn,' the admonishment was sharp, and the blonde's lips curled in amusement.

'Rachel,' she responded playfully, dragging the word out.

The vibration of her name against her skin sent a shudder of anticipation through the singer and she found strength enough to open her eyes and grip the blonde's hips, her fingers kneading into the soft flesh. Instead of pushing Quinn away, she pulled her closer, feeling the warmth of her long bare legs against her jeans. Only half-dressed for the day, Quinn had never looked more beautiful to Rachel's eyes. The freshly laundered shirt, only half-buttoned, offset the smooth expanse of soft skin and the damp chaos of her blonde hair. A mess compared to Rachel's perfect make-up and neatly tailored outfit, but a beautiful mess.

She had been caught off-guard by the half-dressed blonde on coming back to the apartment, but now that her senses returned, she took the opportunity to spin them round. Quinn was still so weak, she knew, so fragile beneath Rachel's hands that she was afraid that she would hurt her, or worse, that the blonde would inadvertently hurt herself.

Quinn kissed her hungrily, the pressure of her soft lips almost bruising, and the way that her body arched and moulded itself to Rachel made her head spin. But as Rachel's hand reached for the hem of her shirt, and started to pull it up, Quinn froze.

The singer pulled back in concern, afraid that she had hurt her, but instead, the expression on the blonde's face was closed.

'Don't,' she murmured, her own hand going to still Rachel's that held the edge of her shirt. It took a split second for Rachel to recognise the blonde's concern.

'I've seen them before, baby,' she whispered. Certainly she had seen them every day that she had helped the woman bathe and dress, every day that she had been by her side.

Quinn closed her eyes, exhaling softly. 'It's different…'

Protectiveness surged within Rachel and she leant forwards to softly kiss the parted lips.

'No, it's not,' she replied firmly, gently clasping Quinn's hand in her own. 'You're beautiful…'

The hazel eyes opened, they looked at her with such raw emotion that Rachel wished she could look away.

'How can you say that?' she whispered, a gentle bitterness in her tone, and Rachel's warm hands started to tenderly unravel the grip that Quinn had upon her shirt. She took her by the hand and led her the few steps to the couch, pushing lightly against her shoulders to get her to sit.

'Because you are beautiful,' she replied softly, kneeling between the blonde's legs. Rachel trailed a finger up the inside of her calf, along the silver line of the old scars that Quinn had gained the night of the fire. She had almost forgotten what she had looked like without them, so integral they were now to the woman that she loved. She pressed a gently kiss against the inner hollow of her knee, and beneath her fingertips, she could feel Quinn tremble.

'Rach…'

The blonde tried to stand, but Rachel pushed her back. Stubbornness was the trait that they shared, and she knew that if Quinn did not accept this now then each time it would become more of a barrier between them.

Her steady fingers unbuttoned the shirt, letting it fall open. Quinn's eyes closed, and Rachel could feel the shallowness of her breathing, the uneven rise and fall of her chest. Dark eyes drifted down over her; the naked form in the soft morning light. From the rounded curve of her belly, to the narrowness of her waist and the flare of her hips, the taut muscles above the dip of her navel... A perfect blend, Rachel had always found, between the soft and the hard, feminine but strong… and then the scars… The thick pink line that cut down between the valley of her breasts intersecting with the crescent that curved up and backwards, through the line of her ribs. Just as the thin, silver parallel lines on her legs were a poor testament to what she had lost the night of the fire, these angry young scars did nothing to represent the horror of what Quinn had done to achieve them.

_I claimed you_, Rachel thought, looking at the skin; the scars; the woman.

_I claimed you when we were five years old, when I put gold stars around your name. _

She trailed her fingertips up the line of Quinn's body, gently pressing her back against the cushions, and with the gentlest touch she leant forwards to kiss the soft smooth skin. Her mouth was hot and insistent, but somehow reverent, and with each kiss the knot of tension within Quinn unravelled all the more.

* * *

><p>It was hours later when Rachel woke again, wrapped in only the blanket from her couch. She lay curled against Quinn's body, the blonde propped against the cushions on the floor as she frowned at the script in her hand. Rachel always slept after sex; Quinn never did.<p>

'This is not what I intended to do today,' Rachel murmured against the soft skin, and Quinn looked down at her with a satisfied smirk.

'You could have fooled me,' she replied lightly.

'Hmmm,' Rachel's lips vibrated with the non-committal sound. She spread her hand across the bare skin overlying the blonde's ribs, pleased that Quinn had not covered herself up, and quirked an eyebrow at the script that the blonde was studying.

'I think that you should do it,' Quinn stated softly, noticing her line of interest. 'It'll be a challenge, but I think that you'd be brilliant as Maggie.'

Rachel prised the script from her hand and leant back into Quinn's body as she looked it over, flicking to the front and then gently leafing through it.

'You think that I could pull off a southern drawl?' she asked, her lips curving up as she teased the blonde.

'Of course.'

For a moment, Rachel paused on a page, her brow furrowing.

'You've only highlighted one line,' she noted, running her fingertip down the page. 'If you like the play so much, then why have you only highlighted one line?'

Quinn's arm pulled her closer, and she pressed a kiss against the tousled dark hair.

'Tennessee Williams writes beautifully,' she replied lightly, 'the whole play would be defiled if I highlighted everything I liked about it…'

Rachel narrowed her eyes, reading again the passage that Quinn had highlighted. There was something evasive in the way that Quinn had answered her and it struck her coolly.

"My only point," she read slowly, "the point that I am making, is that life has got to continue even after the _dream_ of life is all… over…"

The words seemed so heavy all of a sudden, and they hung in the air.

'The _dream_ of life?'

She looked up at the blonde.

'It just seemed so… sad,' Quinn replied, 'so poignant. I don't know why, but it struck me.'

Rachel shivered, the hairs rising up against her skin as she felt a coolness breeze in over her. She set the play aside, turning towards the warmth of Quinn's body. Within their cocoon she wished that she could keep the blonde with her forever, she wished that that was how life worked. She brushed the golden hair from the woman's face, returning the smile that Quinn gave her.

'Tell me again, baby,' she urged, masochistically wanting to hear the hope and passion within the blonde's voice, even as she knew the words would hurt her all the more, 'tell me again why you became a doctor?'

The blonde's lips quirked.

'Why?' she laughed softly, 'you know the answer.'

Rachel rolled her eyes, nudging the woman in the ribs.

'But I never get tired of hearing it…'

And as Quinn's words drifted up and through the apartment, like incense that filled the air, Rachel felt her eyes sting with them, for ever clearer became the choice that she had to make and each moment seemed all the more precious.

* * *

><p>It was over a week later when Rachel fumbled with the key in the door to her apartment, half-falling through it when it suddenly gave way.<p>

'Stupid lock,' she murmured to herself as she regained her balance, carefully closing the door behind her. Since she had bought the apartment, the second lock had been giving her trouble, as though the apartment itself was amused by the act of tripping her up every time that she tried to get across the threshold.

Apart from the irritation of the front door, the apartment was perfect; split level and airy with large glass windows that let in the sunshine during the day and at night gave the most breath-taking views of New York. She had bought it when the money had started rolling in; when it seemed that the name Rachel Berry was rising everywhere, not long after Quinn had left two years ago.

She leant back against the door, listening to the strange silence.

Two weeks ago, she had brought Quinn home to her apartment from the hospital. Rachel had held her breath with an uncharacteristic shyness as she watched the blonde meander slowly through the rooms, the sharp hazel eyes picking out each and every nuance of the furnishings and space. Never had the place felt so warm than it did with Quinn sharing it with her; never had the light seemed so bright.

'Quinn?'

She called out the name with the flicker of a frown across her features.

When she had left a little earlier in the morning, Quinn had been sitting at the coffee table with the stack of potential scripts before her; the ones that Rachel's agent had sent over for her to read. The brunette paused by the table, her fingers brushing across the open pages; her eyes drifting over the scribbled notes in the margins. The half-finished coffee amid the chaos was still warm.

Curiously, she started towards the wooden stairs that would take her to the bedrooms upstairs, imagining that the blonde was there, but even as she started to move, a voice stopped her in her tracks.

'What the hell is this?'

The coldness of the tone stopped her in her tracks and the breath caught in her throat. It took her a split second to realise what the blonde was so icily referring to. She turned slowly on the spot, lifting her chin a fraction and smoothing back the chestnut waves of her hair, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

'Quinn, I…' she started carefully before the blonde cut her off.

'No, Rachel,' the blonde's words were tight and angry, 'I don't want an excuse, I want an explanation. What _is_ this?'

The envelope flew from her hand and landed against the table with a smack, the sound of it snapping Rachel out of her inertia. Her eyes drifted down to the manila envelope, roughly opened at the end, before raising them again to meet her girlfriend's. She hadn't intended for it to happen this way, but clearly intentions be damned.

'You know what it is,' she replied quietly.

The dark blue of the passport cover had slipped a little from the envelope as Quinn had thrown it down, and now it lay between them passively, waiting for the argument to rain down around it. Quinn's eyes flashed, and Rachel steeled herself not to flinch away. For all her best intentions were crumbling around her.

'Are you testing me?' the blonde demanded, hurt lacing her tone, 'is that it? Is that what you are doing, Rachel? Pushing me away?'

The tan of Quinn's skin had faded without the sunshine, but still it seemed to glow as the rays glanced off her, and her hair, freshly washed, had grown in the time that she had been in New York. Was it six weeks? Rachel wondered absently, wishing that she could run her fingers through it now, or maybe even eight? The days had fallen away, dissolved beneath the volatile events, and now the pale gold hair brushed across Quinn's narrow shoulders.

'I chose you, Rachel,' the blonde insisted urgently, her hands tightened to fists, 'how much more do I have to do to prove that to you? I love you and I am staying. I am _staying_…'

Rachel watched her, her own breath held tightly within her. There was something about the way that Quinn spoke, with that strange desperation, that made her feel as though this had already played out; that Quinn was afraid of the answers she would give, of how words would burst the perfect bubble within which they had been ensconced.

Rachel's fingers pulled at the sleeve of her designer jacket, trying to gain some control over herself and her emotions. She could feel the tears welling in her eyes and she knew that she needed to hold it together, knew that she had to if she had any hope of Quinn understanding anything that she was going to say.

'You didn't tell me…' Rachel said finally, her voice low and husky from carefully controlled emotion.

Confusion crossed Quinn's features, it darkened the troubled eyes.

'What?'

'You didn't tell me,' Rachel stated again, her voice growing steadier, 'what it meant to you. You never told me how important it was…'

She bit down on her lip, her perfectly manicured nails curling into her palms, and she could feel the sting of them, she could feel it so sharply. Across the room from her Quinn looked bewildered, but as Rachel watched her, there was a hint of something more, something not unlike fear fraying at the edges.

'I saw you, Quinn,' her voice was quiet, but in the silence of the apartment it seemed so loud, 'at the conference. I saw you… and the passion with which you spoke… the commitment…'

The hazel eyes held hers for a moment, and there was so much in them that Quinn would not put into words, but Rachel could see it… Rachel could see it all and the emotion caught in her throat. The blonde folded her arms across her chest, a shiver of vulnerability running through her. Rachel wished that she could cross the distance between them again, but she knew that if she were any closer to the blonde then she would not be able to say the words that needed to be said.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Rachel asked quietly, 'why _couldn't_ you tell me?'

Quinn's face twisted, the scar on her cheek wrinkling awkwardly. Her breath was becoming shallow, the fear was all too real.

'Because I chose you,' her voice was hoarse; the words rough in her throat. 'Because it meant nothing compared to being with you… and all that Cambodia was going to do was take me away… don't you see that?'

The vulnerability in Quinn's eyes cut her to the core, before the blonde looked away, her expression hardening, her resolve strengthening once more.

'I didn't tell you because I had already made the choice. I chose _you_,' she repeated firmly, 'and that means New York…'

Quinn swallowed against the lump in her throat, the thickness of the emotion that was cloying at them.

'I'm not running away from you again, Rachel,' she promised, the unshed tears sparkling in her hazel eyes, 'I'm not leaving you. Not ever.'

But all that Rachel could see was their reflection in the window panes, the person that Quinn would become here compared to the one that she could be there. How great the difference was, how great the choice. She could hear the hope that had filled Quinn's voice when she spoke at the conference, and she wished that she could un-hear it, she wished that she had never known the redemption that Quinn had searched for, and found, in those two years alone.

'I can't hold you back, Quinn,' she stated softly, but to the blonde the words felt like a physical blow; she blinked, her body trembling.

'You're not…' she insisted.

'If you don't go back, then I am.'

'But I chose _you_,' Quinn repeated herself, the tears finally tripping over her eyelashes and she crossed the few steps between them, her hands grasping at Rachel's trying to break the spell of the words. 'It is my choice to make, and I have made it. I chose you, Rachel…'

And with her so close, Rachel couldn't help but feel her own anxiety boil up within her as well. The tears had long since started spilling down her cheeks and she grasped at Quinn's arms, unsure whether she was pulling the blonde towards her or pushing her away.

'And I chose _you_,' the brunette replied earnestly, her throat burning with the words, 'I love you… I have always loved you, so much… I need you to know that… But I need to let you be the person that you need to be…'

'I _need_ to be here…' Quinn cut her off.

'No, baby,' Rachel held her at arms-length, swiping at the tears on Quinn's cheeks with her thumbs. She could look into those darkening eyes, at the woman that she had loved too much for too long. 'We both know that is not true…'

She took a shuddering breath, feeling the protectiveness flare within her, the sudden burning desire that made her straighten. In her heels, Rachel found herself a fraction taller than the blonde, practically nose to nose. Quinn's expression may be closed, a flower against the moon, but Rachel knew that beneath the surface a war raged within. As the hazel eyes flashed at her, Rachel was acutely reminded of a younger Quinn, of the teenager she had first fallen in love with, with all that energy and volatile fire, but just as quickly as it flared, it faded away.

'I will support you,' she promised softly and surely, 'I will support you… and I will love you… and I will wait for you, Quinn.'

The look that crossed the blonde's face was unreadable, but as her eyes flicked up to meet the dark ones, it was once again the Quinn that she recognised. The struggle in those eyes twisted her heart.

'You have so much to offer the world,' Rachel whispered, her voice thick, 'I can't let you give that up for me… I won't.'

'I'm not leaving,' Quinn repeated softly, and Rachel started to cry once more, silent tears in fat drops that rolled down her cheeks. 'I'm not leaving you.'

She gathered the blonde against her body, holding her tightly and burying her face into the curve of her neck. Quinn's body was shaking, she could feel it. She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet scent of the woman's shampoo, trying to hold this feeling within her, the wonderful feeling of being together with the one that she loved. She couldn't help but curse herself, then, for loving her so much; and she cursed the world too, for always making the right decisions the hardest ones to live with.

* * *

><p>Santana pushed through the office doors with the bagel balanced precariously on top of her take-away coffee cup and the noise of the place hit her immediately. It was a far cry from the pristine offices of Goldberg, Cox and Lee, more like a street market if she was honest, but somehow the bustle of activity in the huge open-plan room gave her comfort. It may not be perfect, but at least the place had soul.<p>

As she walked down the aisle, she spotted the figure that she had been looking for. Ben leant up against the wall, smirking at her as she approached. She handed him one of the take-away cups with a quirk of a brow, amused that she found the familiarity of his presence to be somehow soothing.

'I was surprised to see you on my appointment list for today,' she stated.

He flashed her a bright grin.

'Well, I was surprised to see that you had switched teams, so to speak,' he returned, 'it's not common for defence lawyers to change tracks and have a go at prosecuting.'

She narrowed her eyes at him and took a sip of her coffee.

'I got bored,' she stated blithely, but they both knew that it was a lie.

'Grew a conscience?' he quipped.

'Hardly,' she returned.

Slowly, as the weeks had passed, the haunting images had faded from her mind, the warmth of the blood against her fingers, of their empty, staring eyes. Even now, though, the slightest thing could bring them back and the nausea was there again, rising up.

'Well from the looks of things, they could use you,' Ben stated warmly, gesturing at the chaos that seemed to be unfolding throughout the office, 'with the number of high-profile Mafia cases that this office is bringing, the DA is going to need all the help that he can get. He's either brave or stupid…'

'He's a good man,' Santana replied, sending the investigator a sharp look. 'The problem lies in making the charges stick, there is a lot of retrospective evidence that they are sifting through, but something concrete… enough to prosecute. I'm sceptical. They have identified over a hundred men and women connected to the mafia who have abused positions of trust and public responsibility… these are powerful people… and the law of the jungle is that the powerful always win.'

Ben's smirk resurfaced, the boyish twinkle in his eyes making Santana's narrow in suspicion.

'Well, that is why I am here,' he stated.

'You grew a conscience too?' she asked dryly.

'Not a chance,' he laughed, 'my skills are very transferrable… and I missed working with you and your acerbic wit…'

'What have you got?' she pressed, and instead of answering he took her arm and led her towards the window, to where they could look down upon the street below. He gestured to the road, and she followed his gaze, squinting down at the people, like ants, below, before looking back at him in confusion.

'Ben…'

'He's willing to testify,' the investigator replied swiftly, the words quiet, 'against the mob.'

Santana's eyebrows rose and she looked down again, able to make out the grey figure on the street corner looking up nonchalantly at the office.

'In exchange for?' she probed.

'Impunity, of course.'

'And why would we be interested in anything that he had to say?' she asked, remaining cynical.

Ben's lips quirked.

'Because _he_ was Mickey Quinn's right-hand man.'

Further words dried against her tongue and Santana felt her heartbeat quicken, for now that he had said the words she could almost recognised the slant of Roy's shoulders, the quiet and deadly way that he stood. She opened her mouth to speak, but then did not know what it was she could say. To come up against the mob was suicide, everyone knew that, and yet maybe Roy's conscience would finally be clean. Her fingers curled against the glass, a strange sadness sweeping through her.

'I'll set up a meeting with Cary…' she stated finally, looking down at the grey spectre below, and wondered at where it all would end.

* * *

><p>The night light in the corner of the guestroom cast a warm glow across the creamy walls, and Quinn pressed a kiss against Carlos' curls as he snuggled down beneath the duvet between his aunts. His small body was warm against hers and she felt a calm contentedness settle over her as she leant back against the headboard, listening to Rachel's voice as it rose and fell over the phrases from the book in her hands.<p>

"Hasn't your experience with the Time-Turner taught you anything, Harry?" Rachel asked, her rich voice deepening, "The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed… Professor Trelawney, bless her, is living proof of that…"

Carlos was engrossed and Quinn's arms tightened around him, trying to hold onto this feeling, to make a memory of it so strong that she would be able to go back to it, time and again, and recall every detail.

Yet, at the edges of her awareness, a cool shadow lingered.

Her passport. The plane ticket that Rachel had bought her. They waited, untouched for weeks, on the coffee table in Rachel's sitting room and each time that Quinn walked through that room she averted her eyes from where they lay. Their pull, however, was getting more powerful with each day and she knew that Rachel could see it. Those dark eyes knew more about Quinn than she knew about herself sometimes and the decision that now seemed inevitable left her feeling nauseated.

"You think that the dead we loved ever truly leave us?"

The story had gone on, and Quinn was lost as to what was happening. All she knew was that Rachel was as engaged in it as Carlos, and watching them both spread a warmth through her body, but with it was a sweet kind of sadness. In another life, she thought, at another time, she could wish to lie here with her own son or daughter, watching Rachel read to them. In a future far off from the one they were heading towards.

"You think we don't recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?" Rachel asked more insistently, her dark eyes meeting the young boy's at her side before glancing back to the text resting in her hands, "Your father is alive in you, Harry, and shows himself plainly when you have need of him…"

Towards the end of the chapter, Carlos' eyes were heavy and the boy was struggling to stay awake. When the time came to finally close the book and tuck him in, he was already asleep. As Quinn crept from the room, she could hear the sound of faint music drifting up from the sitting room below. She quietly made her way down the stairs, her brow furrowing in mild confusion as she made out Rachel's slender figure at the window, waiting for her.

The moonlight washed through the glass and bathed the room in a surreal glow that lengthened the purple shadows across the floor. The gentle melody stirred within her, and a smile pulled at Quinn's lips.

'I haven't heard this for years,' she murmured, the soft recognition taking her back to a younger age; a more innocent time. Rachel's chestnut hair fell across her shoulders in waves and her features relaxed into a warm smile. She was holding out her hand for Quinn to take, the dark eyes even deeper in the night.

'Dance with me,' she said quietly when Quinn hesitated on the bottom step, and the blonde found her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Slowly she accepted the outstretched hand, feeling the haunting tones run through her body as Rachel pulled her close. Her hand found Quinn's waist, and slowly, together, they started to dance alone in the moonlight.

'I never had the chance to dance with you at Prom,' Rachel murmured into the blonde hair, her tone light, 'and whenever I hear this song, I think of you… and I regret that we never danced together then.'

Quinn's fingers trailed up the brunette's back, her hazel eyes darkening. Unspoken words tugged at her lips and she pressed her forehead against the brunette's, feeling the soft curves of her body move beneath her hands. She, too, had waited a long time for this moment; for each and every moment together. The closeness that she felt; the bond that had strengthened day by day between them…

'I wish that I could tell you to stay…' Rachel whispered.

'Shhhh,' Quinn cut her off, pulling the brunette closer, holding her tighter.

'…but I love you too much to let you,' she continued softly, as though Quinn had not spoken.

Rachel wrapped her arms around the blonde, resting her head upon her shoulder, in that gentle hollow that had always felt as though it were made just for her. She could feel Quinn's heartbeat against her skin, could smell the scent of her and the softness of her hair.

'I've waited a lifetime for you, Quinn,' she whispered, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over her eyelashes. 'A year, or two, or three… it's just a drop in the ocean, before we can be together again.'

Quinn took a breath, swallowing against the lump that was forming in her throat. She refused to cry, not yet, not whilst she still had Rachel in her arms and the moon outside, and the time had not yet come.

'Love me now,' she said instead, quietly. 'And dance with me as we used to dance…'

She twirled her around, twirled them both together until the room around them was spinning, and Rachel was laughing in her ear, and the colours of the world blurred, not because of the tears but from the speed at which they could spin, round and around, together, like children again. Quinn had no intention of stopping, not until breathlessness had stolen their words… until all the words were gone. Until all the world had faded away, leaving only the two of them alone, together.

* * *

><p>It was a sickness that she felt, a deep churning sickness in the pit of her belly. Every step was heavy and her feet felt as though they were dragging against the carpeted floor, urging her backwards with every step that she took forwards.<p>

'Business or pleasure?' the check-in girl asked chirpily from behind the desk, and the nausea rose within Quinn's throat. She swallowed it down, rubbing wearily at her eyes. The headache that had been there for the last few hours just seemed to intensify and she wanted nothing more than to sit down and cry. Her heart felt heavy within her chest, beating steadily on.

'Business,' she answered quietly instead.

'Phnom Penh via Seoul,' the girl smiled brightly, scribbling on the back of her boarding pass before handing it back to her with her passport. 'You can go straight through to your gate… Boarding will start forty-five minutes prior to departure.'

With a weary nod, Quinn turned, taking a few steps away from the desk before stopping once more.

The afternoon sunshine was streaming down through the large glass windows above, and the warmth of it tingled against her skin. She shut her eyes, trying to push Rachel from her thoughts… trying to push them all away, once again.

Two years ago, she had stood in this spot; this spot beneath the glass roof and the sweeping white steel beams. She remembered it clearly now, despite all the attempts she had made to forget. She had left so brokenly, terrified of both the future and the past, and had been hurting so very, very deeply.

Her fingers tightened about the passport, about the boarding pass within, and held them to her chest.

'I want you to stay.'

When Quinn blinked open her eyes, her vision was blurred with unshed tears. The lump was burning in her throat and she smiled weakly at the Latina, the woman who had always had her back.

'I know that you can't,' Santana said, 'and I know that you shouldn't. But I want it. I _want_ you to stay. You belong here with us.'

'I know,' Quinn whispered, her throat too sore to speak any louder. She didn't need to explain herself to San; not anymore. Instead, the blonde's hand tangled in her shirt and she pulled Santana roughly against her, the wiry strength of her body pressing against her own.

The smell of the Latina's perfume filled her nostrils and Quinn felt the heat of her own tears against her cheeks; the silent threat that she was going to tumble down into hysteria if she let herself think or feel too much. She tightened her arms around the woman, holding her against her body, trying to memorise the feel of her; soft and strong and gentle and rough.

'I love you,' she breathed the words, promising them.

Santana closed her eyes, pressing her forehead down against the blonde's shoulder. Her breath felt as though it were burning in her lungs, and yet she was scared to release it. The inevitable seconds and minutes drifting passed.

'I love you,' she replied, her lips dry, and holding the blonde close against her she repeated them, each one stronger. 'I love you, Fabray.'

And though she should, Quinn made no attempt to move away, her heart beating fast against her ribs until she felt as though they would crack with the force of it.

* * *

><p>It was the sound that struck her when she closed the door behind her and leant wearily against it, the utter silence that seemed to consume the space. Pale light spread through the large glass windows and cast soft shadows around the room; the softness of them making Rachel tremble. With every second that passed, the gentle hope that Quinn would find a different resolve and return to her seemed to fade a little more. It was a hopeless dream, and a painful one, for Rachel had known the end; she'd known the end that they would reach far before Quinn had, and now the apartment was empty and cold and the aching chasm within her was growing with each breath.<p>

She dropped her handbag to the floor, pressing her hands up against her stinging eyes and curling in on herself. It made her feel sick, this emptiness; pulled at something deep within her. Even on closing her eyes, she could almost hear Quinn's voice. She could feel the warmth of her smile; the quiet strength of her at her side, the scent of her that still lingered here but would fade… it would all fade.

Rachel pushed herself off the door, biting down on her lip. She hadn't been able to go to the airport; they had both decided that it would be best if she did not, so that they could say their goodbyes in private, away from the ever-present camera lens.

'Pull yourself together,' she chastised herself harshly, stepping boldly across the room and making herself strengthen before stopping abruptly before the large glass windows, her heart hammering suddenly within her chest. Her dark eyes had fallen to the table, to the tall thin glass vase and the single stemmed lily within. It had not been there when she had left in the morning.

The burning behind her breast intensified, frozen as she was to this spot on the carpeted floor. The soft pink of the petals fading to a pale white at their edges, so familiar to her, so potently bittersweet. Anger bloomed, anger that Quinn could go, and that this was all that she could leave behind. That this was all that Rachel could ever have of her.

Rachel's hand swiped out, before she even knew what she was doing. The burning and sickness and tears all intensifying. The vase was light, and it flew from the table with force, smashing loudly against the wall only a fraction of a second later. Her vision blurred, the stinging of her eyes and the hot tears furious on her cheeks. She sucked the air into her lungs, only then realising that she had been crying out; a dull, painful sound that felt as though it were ripped from deep within her.

The yellow pollen from the flower had scattered across the carpet in bright spots; the glass sparkling like scattered diamonds about it. Rachel cradled her hand, savouring the ache, this ache that tied her to reality. The table surface was otherwise bare, and she was oddly glad that Quinn had not written a letter; for all she needed to say was in that flower. All she had ever promised.

As her breathing eased, the tightness in her chest started to dissipate, and she felt the cool, unforgiving light return. The heaviness of the blanket of clouds above and the steely grey of the uncompromising sky as the seconds ticked steadily on with the ache of that thread that pulled her ever forwards.

A rare shaft of sunshine cut through, just for a moment, before it was gone again. But in that second, Rachel's eyes fell upon something that she had not noticed before, half hidden on the floor.

Crouching down curiously she reached for it, distorted by the fractured glass, she uncovered it with a sweep of her hand. The pale gold of the ring beside the stem of the flower shimmered at her through her tears. That burning seemed to swell within her once more, but this time her breath did not catch, and she felt her resolve start to harden; that strong single-mindedness that had brought her so far, that had pushed them in opposite directions. It was the right choice that she had made; she knew it was.

'It's not an ending,' she whispered to herself, wishing that she could believe that it was true, her fingertips hovering beside the gold ring on the carpet, afraid to touch it just yet in case it should vanish to nothing. She looked up and out of the windows, to the great expanse of the sky above.

'It's not an ending if I have you with me…' she felt that she would burst with all the feeling that bloomed inside of her, '…I have you with me.'

* * *

><p>The plane accelerated along the runway and Quinn's eyes fixed, unblinking, on the ever diminishing buildings as they slipped away beneath the low clouds. It hurt to breathe, as though the air were somehow thinner up here, and the steadiness of her decision was dissolving, just as the city was dissolving.<p>

She pressed her fingertips against the cool of the window, that burning in her chest only deepening. Somewhere below Rachel was watching the sky; watching from that great glass window in her apartment, and Quinn wondered at the years that would change them before they met again. Whether the sky would change, or the world; what things, great or small, would they have to encounter alone.

The aeroplane broke through the clouds and the sun shone brightly across their fluffy white surface, its powerful rays cutting through the window and glancing off the ring on her finger. Quinn smoothed her fingertip against it, the cool even surface of the promise that she had never broken. It felt right to be finally wearing it; feeling the golden band against her skin. For two years Santana had kept them safe, for the last two years.

The plane banked, and as it did, the rays of the sun fell across her; the warmth of it against her pale skin. Silent tears tracked down her cheeks, glistening in the sunshine, and Quinn's fingers against the window curled, feeling the ghost of the hand that fit against hers.

Above the clouds she could imagine the souls were at peace, finally, at that point on the horizon where the blue of the sky burnt to a pale golden glow. Ahead of her, the red earth awaited, with all its unexpected cruelties, and Rachel… Rachel would be with her, carried with her, as she had always been. Pushing forwards, through the thick crowds, to the expansive future that awaited them.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading - please review.<strong>


	35. The Young Idealists

So here we are - the final chapter for our young idealists. A big thank you to everyone who reads this fic and especially those who review. It is sad to finally be saying goodbye to it - but there we go. Enjoy...!

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 35 – The Young Idealists<span>

**New York, 2024. 2 weeks before the present time.**

'There is something that I need to do.'

Jasper wondered, briefly, as though the thought had fluttered across his mind like a butterfly, why it was always him that she turned to with that look in her eye. Suspicion crossed his features as surely as the shadow of a passing cloud and it must have shown on his face as she reached out to take his hand.

'I need your help, Jasp.'

Six hours later and he was standing on the Interstate 87, thanking whatever deities had blessed them that it was not raining anymore.

'Careful!' he shouted for what felt like the millionth time, the word being caught and swept up by the wind. Quinn looked as delicate as the skeleton of a leaf in the fall, swaying as she steadily climbed, and if she even heard him, he couldn't tell. It was something that she needed to do; something she needed to do herself.

'If you fall,' he shouted, 'we are both _dead_.'

This time Quinn glanced over her shoulder, the blonde hair whipping in the wind.

'Don't be such a pussy!' she taunted with a strangled laugh and there was a look in her eyes that reminded him of the girl that she had been when he had first met her, a girl from years ago.

Jasper glared up at her, fleetingly tempted to knock her off the scaffolding himself, though he knew that Rachel would castrate him for even considering it. She would probably castrate him for bringing Q here in the first place. Quinn climbed the last few feet to the platform and blew him a kiss.

'I'll leave you here, Fabray!' he threatened, but he knew that she was no longer listening. Instead, Quinn stood before the image of herself on the billboard, looking up at her own pale skin, glowing with the streetlight. Her slender frame cast a shadow across her lips and her nose, not quite reaching the hazel eyes.

Quinn's breath caught as she confronted the image of herself, wishing that she could claim it to be the harsh wind that seemed to steal the breath from her rather than the haunting look upon her own face. A face that could only look backwards, that dealt only with regret; nothing more.

Blotting out the image, blacking it out, was what she wished to do; paint it black, every inch… but beneath the paint, the truth would remain. It was something she could never erase.

Quinn trembled in the cold, her muscles aching in that almost-pleasant way that reminded her that she was alive. She was weak from weeks of rehabilitation; but she was _alive_. Tension gripped her as she looked upon herself, upon that face so riddled with regrets; with all that had happened, with all that could happen now, she could not blot it out or forget, she could never paint over the past and live with it. But then, there was something else now… a life that could start, and with it, she had to let go of what had come before.

As the tension melted from her shoulders, she raised the spray can. She was careful, holding the mask over her face as she methodically attacked the image, and when she was done, she looked upon her work and allowed herself a smile.

Jasper watched her with a bemused expression as she carefully climbed down, raising his camera as she set her feet back on the ground.

'Take the picture,' she told him, spreading her arms wide, and he bent to one knee to focus in on the last photograph of her that he would ever take. As the shutter snapped, he felt warmth rush through him.

It would be alright, he knew, with the faith of someone who had to believe; to believe that it would all be alright.

* * *

><p><strong>Lima. 1999. <strong>

'_He tried to kill me, Mickey…'_

_Her voice was sharp, like a violin string tightened too far and ready to snap; her nerves felt ready to snap._

'_I know…' he spoke calmly, and his voice at the end of the phone line felt far away, across the miles of empty space between them. Judy felt the tremors start to vibrate through her body again, the slick anxiety of the adrenaline that had not yet passed._

'_No, you don't know,' she replied lowly, 'he put a goddamn bomb under my car, like a little cowardly rat, and tried to fucking kill me. In Chicago; in my town… My town, Mickey…' _

'_I'll deal with it,' he cut her off, 'I promise.'_

_Mickey Quinn always kept his promises. Over the years, she had come to appreciate that quality in him; the hardened, moody man that she could not stop loving despite everything that he did. Judy had never chosen him, and she had never allowed him to choose her, but somehow he was always the one first and foremost in her mind, even now, before Russell, it was Mickey that she called. _

_We'll kill each other one day, she thought darkly, her fingers tightening around the smooth black handle of the payphone, through love and jealousy and being too goddamn similar. We'll love each other and kill each other._

'_I don't like being afraid,' she admitted quietly. The silence at the end of the phone was heavy in the way that made her know that he was listening, listening to her intently. 'My family could have been in that car, Mick…'_

'_They weren't,' the tenderness of his voice tugged at her and she blinked back tears. _

'_My daughter…'_

'_Our daughter.'_

_Across the road she could see Roy step from his vehicle, the fresh bandage across his face from where the shrapnel from the explosion had cut open his cheek earlier in the day; the explosion that had ripped the car apart and killed two men. Her ears still rang from it, with the knowledge of her own fragile mortality, of how close she had come to death. She steeled herself again, felt the hollow strength burn. There was no time for sentimental feeling, not beyond her family, not anymore. _

'_I have to go,' she said coolly, widening the distance between them as she always did. On the other end of the line, Mickey was silent, but his silences always echoed with what was unsaid and she heard them, she heard them all; these soft unspoken words. Judy hung up the phone before she could say anything more. _

_She nodded to Roy as she stepped from the phone booth, her heels clicking against the asphalt as she crossed the road away from him towards the school. The heat of summertime shimmered above the ground; it hung heavily in the air, a stifling heat that set a thin layer of sweat upon her smooth skin. She brushed the blonde hair from her forehead irritably, from where the dusty air had swept it as she marched towards the building, her handbag heavy across her shoulder. _

_She pushed open the door with purpose, marching passed the woman behind the reception desk who tried to stop her. _

'_Ma'am?' the shrill voice of the receptionist rang out indignantly, 'ma'am!'_

_She walked on._

_Across the walls of the corridor were pinned the colourful paintings of childhood innocence, imperfect circles and stick-drawings. They tugged at her heart a little as she passed, as though innocence were made up of delicate threads all woven into a spiders web, and it took little effort for her to cut through it. _

_Room 2A was on her left and she knocked once, sharply, before entering. It must have been a period of free-play, as the children seemed to be scattered about underfoot, and she searched them for her small blonde, coiled with purpose to just grab her and get out._

'_Mrs Fabray?' the kindergarten teacher was crossing the room with an uncertain smile upon her young face. _

'_I need to take Lucy home.'_

'_It's the middle of the day…'_

_Judy's blue gaze cut back to the girl, an eyebrow rising. _

'_I know what time it is,' she responded coolly, 'I need to take her home. Now.'_

_The teacher twitched uncomfortably, pausing just out of reach of the slender blonde. There had always been something so cold and distant about the Fabrays, something unreachable. It wasn't just the society wife designer clothes, or that dangerous air of wealth that seemed to cling to them in a haze, it was something more sinister, just there, beneath the surface. _

'_She's over in the reading corner,' the teacher indicated hesitantly, 'with Rachel. I'll get her things for you.'_

_Judy crossed the room swiftly, the tension in her body easing only slightly as her youngest daughter came into view. She sighed, not realising until that moment how much anxiety she had been carrying within her. _

'_Luce…' she called._

_Lucy Fabray, however, did not seem to hear her mother's voice, and Judy paused to watch her for a moment, struck, as she often was, by the sweetness of childhood. Her daughter was small for her age, curled up on the cushions in the little reading corner as she flipped through a colourful picture book with her friend. Her blonde hair, so neatly braided in the morning, was now in disarray, as it always was when the girl was left to her own devices for more than five minutes and Judy felt the faint tremble start again in her hands. The desire to hold Luce close and breathe in her soft, childish innocence was almost unbearable. She was alive, she had to reassure herself, she was alive and her daughter was alive and healthy. A near miss and nothing more. _

'_Lucy,' Judy called the name more firmly and both the girl and her dark-haired companion looked up from their book. _

'_Mama?' _

'_We have to go home, babygirl,' she stated gently, holding out her hand for Lucy to take._

_The child, however, made no move, an expression of indecision crossing her face. At her side the pretty brunette curled closer, ducking her head shyly behind the blonde, and it was then, on looking closer, that Judy saw their hands clasped together beneath the picture book. _

'_I don't wanna go, Mama.'_

_If Judy had known then the course of life that was laid out before them, before these two innocent children, she may have taken a moment's pause... but she did not. No one could see the twists and turns that they would make, of where life would take them. She held out her hand and raised an eyebrow. The loaded gun within her handbag felt so heavy in this room, so dark, her own fate pulling her down. _

'_I'm sorry, Lucy, but it is time to go,' she stated, snapping her fingers. 'Now, come on. Chop-chop.'_

_The girl's large eyes reminded her poignantly of Mickey, and it was probably that association that always hardened her resolve against her daughter's wishes. Even as a five year old, Lucy had mannerisms and traits that reminded her of the girl's father, mixed with characteristics that Judy refused to acknowledge were her own. Her daughters, though similar in appearance, could not have been more different in temperament; Lucy was stubborn where Franny was obedient, adventurous where her sister was shy, she was open and smiling and friendly, and so curious about the world... Where Franny, as a child, had always stayed anxiously by her side, Lucy at the same age was prone to running off, following any random interest that she had. Judy had always known that her second child would be more of a challenge than the first. _

'_Please, Mama,' the girl tried again; just like her father, she always pushed when she should not. _

'_I said no, Lucy.'_

_Judy's patience had frayed at the edges and she bent down to sweep the child up into her arms, resting her against her hip. In fairness, Lucy knew better than to struggle, instead she wrapped her small arms about her mother's neck and pouted sadly at her friend, resting her cheek against her mother's shoulder. Judy took a calming breath, inhaling the sweet smell of her daughter's hair and feeling the warmth of innocent youth; Lucy's strong heartbeat through her shirt. _

'_They're very close,' the teacher stated as she handed over the girl's belongings. _

_Judy frowned in confusion, already heading for the door. _

'_Hmmm?'_

'_Rachel and Lucy,' the teacher elaborated hesitantly, indicating the small, dark-eyed brunette who looked on sadly as she watched them go, sitting now alone upon the cushions, but Judy didn't turn to look, neither at the dark haired little girl nor at her own daughter as she left the room, Lucy's hand raised forlornly. _

_Her daughter was heavy in her arms as she stepped outside, but there was something about the violent events of the morning that stopped her from setting the girl down. She needed her close, and real, as though her own dubious connection to reality could be strengthened through the child. Lucy, for her part, seemed to be uncharacteristically subdued, as though she sensed her mother's disquiet. _

_Judy had rounded the corner and made it halfway to Roy's car when she saw the man in the peripheries of her vision. Her body moved jerkily before her brain could even process the danger, throwing herself and her daughter down behind the nearest parked car at the edge of the road. The first gunshot rang out before she cleared the framework, but it went wide, and the following shots struck the metal body of the vehicle in sharp staccato exclamations. _

'_Flat on the ground,' she snapped, 'lie flat on the ground…' _

_Lucy had started to whimper as her mother disentangled her from her arms, pushing her roughly down against the gravel. _

_Already, another weapon had discharged across the quiet, leafy street. Roy, from his position down the road was firing back and an iciness, full of fear and fury, ran through her. There was a strangled cry and she knew at least one assailant had been hit._

'_Stay absolutely still, Lucy,' she instructed her youngest, staring straight into those wide, terrified eyes, 'do not move. You understand me? Do. Not. Move.' _

'_Yes, mama,' the small blonde replied breathlessly, and Judy squeezed her small sweaty hand in reassurance._

_She pulled her hand-mirror from her bag, pressing herself back against the car and sliding up it slowly, using the mirror to view the trees beyond. One figure on the ground, another flitting between the line of trees beyond. Her fingers closed around the handle of gun; clicking off the safety. She waited a heartbeat before swinging around and rising up, firing straight and sure. The noise was loud, and she didn't know which of them struck the winning blow, but between her bullets and Roy's, their target fell. _

_She ducked back behind the car, waiting cautiously._

'_It's clear,' Roy's voice called out in the ensuing quiet and Judy's movements were swift as she stood and stepped out into the road. The noise, she knew, would draw attention, especially in this quiet suburban street, but they were hidden well enough by the mosaic of shadows from the trees so as not to be easily seen._

_The chest of the man lying in the road rose and fell as he gasped for breath, a mess of blood and bone. Across, in the trees, Roy flipped over the other body with the toe of his boot. He looked up at Judy, as she approached. _

'_Dead,' he stated quietly. _

_She paused by the other who was gasping for breath, stared down at his blood-streaked face without compassion. He was young, certainly younger than she, and was focussing on her with dark eyes. She kicked the weapon out of reach with one sweep of her foot and it clattered loudly upon the road. _

'_You made a stupid mistake today,' she said softly, the same cold fury welling up in her, it trembled through her body, and she raised the gun in her hand, 'attacking my daughter… my family…'_

_Words which may have been on his lips vanished as she pulled the trigger, the loud blunted sound of it as it struck him in the gut, penetrating the viscera. She exhaled sharply through her nose, watching him twist and turn on the asphalt._

'_Judy,' Roy's voice was closer now, but she couldn't tear her focus away from the man writhing on the ground before her. 'We have to go…'_

_Of course, every second was important, but her anger, and her fear, had not been satisfied. She watched him move, the heat of the afternoon hot against her skin. He was lost in pain, trying to crawl away from her, and she felt nothing but white hot fury. The sickening fear of what damage he may have caused._

'_No one threatens my family,' she whispered, aiming narrowly between his eyes. 'No one.'_

_The shot rang out, and this time, afterwards, she closed her eyes. The bloody mess sprayed across the road; he lay still. _

_After a long moment, she turned her back on him, her limbs stiff as she walked towards the bullet riddled car. The asphalt had taken the skin from her knees and it stung as she walked. As she stepped closer to the Chevrolet, she hesitated, her eyes meeting those of her daughter. _

'_I…' she started, but Lucy's eyes were wide, her breathing fast and shallow. _

'_I told you not to move,' Judy chastised, the words sounding harsher than she intended as she crouched down before the terrified child. The blonde girl flinched away as her mother reached for her and Judy felt her heart twist. The girl was trembling, a fine tremor that shook her small body like a leaf in the breeze. _

'_Lucy,' she spoke gently, struggling to get the girl's attention and feeling sick from the guilt of it, 'Lucy…'_

_Judy wanted nothing more than to pull her into her arms and hold her, but something about the way that Lucy was standing made her pause. The girl's hand was shaking as she reached out, her fingertips brushing against the blood that was damp upon her mother's clothes._

'_It's okay, baby,' she whispered, closing the young fingers within her own palm and pulling the quivering child into her stronger arms. It was the quietness that stung her, more than if the girl had been crying or screaming. She cradled her daughter against her, nuzzling down against her soft hair and murmuring reassurances that she knew were barely penetrating the surface. Even as she carried her towards the car she could feel the frightened shallow breaths hot against her skin and guilt muddled with the anger she was flushed with. _

'_I'm leaving Chicago,' she stated softly as Roy started to drive, 'no more of this… no more.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Sihanoukville, Cambodia 2023<strong>

_The waves roared upon the shore; each one crashing down after the last across the golden sands. The deep blue of the sea as it stretched out seemed, to Brittany, as though it would go on to infinity. It made her feel so small suddenly in this world; so insignificant. _

'_Where do waves come from?' _

_Nabir looked up at her with dark eyes. Shy and quietly charming, he had slowly come to trust her in the weeks that she had been with Quinn at the hospital, and he now sought her out timidly whenever she was alone. The sharp intelligence in the orphan's large eyes reminded her poignantly of her own son at the same age; her own wonderful child, back in New York. _

_The beach was empty, but for them; the other children were playing about the campfire that Nous had built further inland. Her long blonde hair was curling in the sea air and she felt as though she were at the end of the world, looking out at forever. _

'_This feeling,' she replied quietly, taking his small hand in hers and pressing his fingers against his breastbone, 'this powerful feeling, when you want to burst with all the emotion inside of you…'_

_He looked up at her seriously, his straight jet hair falling down into his eyes. _

'…_this feeling is what makes the waves.'_

* * *

><p><strong>New York, 2024. (Present). <strong>

A squeal of excitement went up from the crowd as she stepped from the limousine. Their voices rose up, her name on their lips and she forced a bright smile as she straightened, subtly correcting the burgundy DeLaRenta gown.

'You look beautiful,' Kurt murmured to her as he held out his arm for her to take and Rachel met his eyes. She took a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable onslaught.

She looped her arm into his, the goosebumps rising on her flesh from the cold wind of the evening. Up ahead, at the end of the red carpet, was the entrance to the Empire cinema and above it, six foot high on a poster twice as wide was Quinn's face. She looked out, beautiful and sad; the image of the woman that Rachel could not shake from her mind.

The shiver that ran though her as she glanced up at those distant hazel eyes was not from the cold of the evening. It seemed that she had spent her life looking for the feeling that this woman inspired in her, and it would not leave her now. Kurt patted her arm reassuringly as they stepped forwards onto the red carpet together, to the reporters and all their questions, to the fan's, and the media and the paparazzi.

* * *

><p><strong>Sihanoukville, Cambodia 2023<strong>

'_He's a smart boy,' Brittany murmured, her eyes on Quinn rather than the child who was playing with wonder in the sand amongst the other orphans they had taken down to the beach. There was a soft look in Quinn's eyes that was so unguarded it made the taller blonde ache. Quinn, who had always claimed to not want children, not after Beth; Quinn, who had wanted so firmly to be independent… alone. Who had left New York, and Rachel, and abandoned her future…_

'_He's wonderful,' the young doctor murmured, close to her as she stretched out her golden brown limbs across the white sand. She had caught the tone in Brittany's voice and she turned to her with a serious look. 'But he's not my son, B…'_

'_I didn't say that…'_

'_I know what you meant,' Quinn cut her off gently. 'He is just another orphan here…'_

_Quinn looked back to the quiet boy, playing innocently in the sand, but Brittany's eyes remained on her. _

'_You love him,' she stated quietly, a soft certainty trickling through her like warm water. She knew that look in Quinn's eyes; she had seen it before. 'It doesn't take a genius to see that.'_

_Quinn didn't reply, her thoughts lost back on those empty days and hours when she had first brought him back to the hospital in Phnom Penh, that first night in the darkness of the concrete shell of the building as she had fought to save his fragile life. She had thrown everything into it, everything she had left. Nous had tried to reason with her; he had warned her that the boy could not survive, but against all odds, against all probability, he had... Nabir had survived, and with him was reborn the hope that Quinn had lost, some strand of faith that all she had given up had had a purpose. _

'_Francois told me what happened,' Brittany persisted, watching the profile of her friend's face for any reaction, 'that he should have died that night on the rooftops…'_

_Silently, Quinn's soft hand found hers, squeezing it gently. She gave nothing of her thoughts away._

_For years, Q had been an enigma to her; a complicated puzzle with half of the pieces missing. Sometimes, Brittany felt as though she had an idea of the outline, but the detail was lost, so many questions unanswered. Quinn was compelling, in her stillness and her silence, as much now as she had been at fourteen years old. The years had passed since Brittany had tried to understand her, but what she had come to realise was that her life was not complete without Q in it. _

'_I'm glad you came,' Quinn whispered. _

_And for the first time in many years, Brittany felt as though Quinn belonged to her as much as she had to Santana and to Rachel; that their friendship was as valid and strong. But watching Quinn, as she, in turn, watched the boy whose life was so precious to her, whose life represented so much, she found herself starting to understand. Not just the pieces of the puzzle that were Quinn Fabray, but the burning drive that kept her here, that kept her pushing forwards against the tide. _

* * *

><p><strong>New York, 2024. (Present). <strong>

The light from the screen reflected upon the faces of the audience, the bright sunshine and ochre earth, the smooth expanse of golden skin, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. A simple soundtrack that flooded Rachel with warmth, the sound of the drums like a heartbeat, and she remembered the sweet smell of Quinn's skin against the cotton sheets, she remembered the sound of her heart as she had laid her head upon her chest.

'…there are some things that you do, that can never be undone,' the doctor replied wistfully to a question that Brittany had asked, 'things that you see that cannot be unseen… they shape you, B; they break and… remake you…'

Brittany's soundtrack had captured the soft timbre of her voice and Rachel twisted the ring about her finger, the emotion choking her as she tried to stay stoic in her seat.

'…from the moment that we are born, we are set on this path; we make decisions, rightly or wrongly, drifting alone on the current…'

Upon the dusty hood of the jeep, Quinn looped an arm around one knee, her other leg dangling over the edge of the car. The landscape beyond stretched out; the dark greens of the foliage, the milky stretches of paddy fields beneath the sun, still high in the sky.

'I've done things,' she said softly, 'that I wish I could undo… but you can never go back, can you? That's the poignancy of it. If I could, I'd be back in McKinley… still watching her from afar, just waiting for it all to happen… for my life to start…'

Rachel felt a soft hand slip over hers and she glanced across at the Latina by her side. Santana's dark eyes remained on the screen, silent tear tracks on her cheeks, and Rachel's hand tightened about the lawyer's, that mutual connection between them for the woman that they had both loved.

'It all went by so quickly,' Quinn glanced across at the tall blonde beside her, ignoring the camera resting on the roof of the car, 'the years, I mean; I feel as though I never saw them as they passed…'

* * *

><p><strong>Lima, 2008.<strong>

_As she glanced back, she caught sight of their fingers intertwining low beside their knees. The soft touch between them; gentle and innocent and unexpected. Quinn felt it twist within her; envy at the wide-eyed wonder on B's face, and the hollow feeling of loss as her hazel eyes fell on Santana. For so long, the Latina had been hers and hers alone, the best and closest friend through darkest of nights and now… now, she knew that time had steadily passed and the safe haven of their shared childhood was gone. She turned away to catch her breath, wondering at how much it hurt to lose something that she had never had. She had been the girl in the middle of the pair; brought them together and stepped away. It shouldn't hurt to be alone but, as she wrapped her arms about herself, it did._

_Quinn walked down the metal steps, through the crowds of the students overlooking the pitch. The football players, in their red and white, were milling around below, the rowdy crowd above. The boy on the bleachers was gangly from his adolescent growth spurt, awkward in his tallness and not yet broad; the boy that she was meant to fall for, whose touch she was meant to crave. She dropped her eyes, not wanting to look at him, and she daren't look back, for seeing Santana and Brittany together was hurting her with the spike of loneliness it caused. Instead, her eyes fell, as they often did, upon the flustered brunette who sat alone in the stands. Usually Quinn would look away, for the discipline of turning was greater than that of not seeking her out. Subconscious and repetitive, she didn't know what drew her eyes through the crowds, what always drew her attention. Her gaze lingered. Dark haired and beautiful, anxious and confident and flustered and alone… Quinn warmed to watch her, this unfamiliar burning within her chest. It frightened her, with both its intensity and its implications. She didn't even know her name._

_With a frown, Quinn drew herself away. Wrapping the letterman around her, she started down the steps towards the football field, towards the tall frame of the boy that towered over her enough to block out the sunshine. She found his clumsy movements neither attractive nor charming, but eclipsed by her fear, they somehow became so. She touched his arm, a forced smile curving her lips, and pushed all thoughts of the brunette away, back to the place where they would smoulder on; embers of dreams long since forgotten. _

* * *

><p><strong>Sihanoukville, Cambodia 2023<strong>

_Brittany slipped the loose shirt over her head as the sun dipped lower in the sky; the pink and golden light spilling across the open ocean. That singularity of purpose crystalized within her as she let the light wash over and through her. _

_Life, she felt it; purpose. _

_It were as though she had never seen a sunset like this before; with nature so powerful around her and the waves washing against the shore. She blinked back the tears in her blue eyes, her hand tightening against the camera in her hand. Never had she felt so alone as this, standing against the shore, and with a strange clarity of feeling, she realised how she had changed in just a few short weeks. From the moment that child had died in her arms she had known… she had known that she would never be the same, that she could never go back to the person that she had been before that night. _

_Again the pair caught her eye, further down the beach away from the campfire, and Brittany felt something else stir within her; an emotion without an obvious name._

_Quinn was a silhouette against the sunset, her blonde hair whipping against the wind, but the little boy looked up at her trustingly, his narrow frame sheltered by hers. Their words were lost on the wind and Brittany's hand itched to raise the camera; to capture the moment as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, as Quinn's protective arms encircled the boy whose life represented to her everything good in this world. But some moments were too fleeting to capture on film; some moments can only be experienced, and it was then, as the golden glow glanced off the water, off the woman and child by the ocean's edge, that Brittany realised, with a painful ache, that Quinn Fabray was never coming home._

* * *

><p><strong>New York, 2024. (Present). <strong>

Champagne was still flowing, but the people were thinning out and, for that, Brittany was glad. The night had been so long already, that all she wished to do now was to go home with her beautiful wife and tuck her son into his bed. Although in many ways it was only the beginning for the documentary, it felt to her as though this was the end, a final chapter in the long struggle that she had taken to make this film.

Jasper emerged from the crowd, a willowy model on his arm. He caught Brittany's eye and sent her a soft smile, leaning forward to murmur something in his date's ear. The model rolled her large doe-eyes and sauntered off across the room.

'This is your party, Brittany,' he said lightly, as he settled into the chair beside her, 'you're not meant to be sitting alone in the corner…'

She smiled easily at him, playing with the thin chain of her bag.

'I'm exhausted,' she admitted, shaking her head lightly, 'it's been such a difficult few months… and I'm just… I'm just exhausted, Jasper.'

He smirked, leaning back in the chair.

'I suppose you are allowed to be exhausted,' he replied, his lips curling in gentle mocking, 'you are a _dazzling_ success, Brittany, your documentary is a success…'

'You think so?'

He shrugged his shoulders.

'You broke boundaries with it… that's what the reviews will say.'

Brittany's eyes fell to the champagne in her hand, the headache that it was giving her.

'I broke a friendship,' she corrected him quietly.

Jasper shook his head gently, pushing the parcel that she had not noticed that he was carrying across the surface of the table to her. Blue eyes met his questioningly.

'What's this?'

'What does it look like?'

She raised a single blonde eyebrow as he nudged it towards her; an oblong wrapped in black tissue paper.

'It's for you,' he said needlessly, as she hesitated to take it. He shrugged his broad shoulders. 'A mutual acquaintance of ours asked me to give it to you tonight.'

Suspicion was replaced by surprise and she took it from his hands, holding it carefully for a moment.

'Quinn?' she asked.

'Open it and see.'

She frowned, running her fingertips gently upon the fragile black paper before sliding her long fingers neatly between the folds to slip the framed picture from within. When her eyes fell upon the image her mouth hung open in a quiet exclamation of surprise.

'When did you…?' she started, running a fingertip along the edge of the frame, 'when did she…?'

Jasper smiled, looking down at the photograph that he had developed, of Quinn in front of the billboard that bore the black marks of her graffiti. Scrawled, down in one corner, was the simplest message that she could have written.

'In the week before she left,' Jasper replied, his eyes drifting down warmly to the photograph. Quinn, scarred and pale and slender, held up the black spray-can in her hand and smiled at him; caught forever in that moment of time. A soft smile came across Brittany's lips as she traced the smooth black line of the graffiti that Quinn had added to the six-foot image of her own serious face, the comedic curl of a black moustache upon her lip beside the large and final 'S' that she had added to the title.

_The Young Idealists_, she had said to him, _only B would have come up with such a title and not realised how pretentious it sounds_.

'It's so… illegal,' Brittany stammered, trying to find the right words. Jasper laughed.

'Try telling Quinn that,' he replied blithely.

'And dangerous…'

He sighed, 'it's not that high...'

'For someone who has undergone massive emergency surgery?'

He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, shrugging his shoulders wordlessly. There was no point in arguing with her; he knew that.

'Rachel's going to kill you.'

He watched as her blue eyes fell back down to the picture; the photograph that, years from now, would hang upon the wall in her house and remind her of how close they had come… of how ambition and purpose had pushed her far from those she loved.

'She climbed up there?' she asked again, a tremulous note in her voice.

Brittany dashed a tear from her eyelashes before it had the chance to drip onto her cheek, and shivered. After everything… through everything.

_For B_.

She ran her finger over the familiar scrawled writing, feeling the tears try to start again.

_Love Q_.

* * *

><p><strong>****** 4 months later ******<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Phnom Penh, 2024. (Present).<strong>

'Jess told me that I'd find you here.'

From her position against the wall, in the flickering candlelight, Quinn looked up, rubbing at her eyes. She had been trying to read, but the words on the typed sheets of paper had merged together in the dim light and the rhythmic sound of Nabir's breathing had lured her closer to sleep. It was quiet, strangely quiet in the dormitories of the orphanage, and the night felt dense with darkness.

'He's sick,' she said softly, her voice hoarse with lack of use, 'feverish and frightened… he couldn't sleep.'

Francois hesitated near the doorway.

'Anything I should worry about?' he asked suspiciously.

'Just a common virus,' she sighed, her fingertips gently stroking across the child's back, 'I'd keep your distance, though, and thoroughly wash your hands… I don't want it spreading.'

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow.

'You seem to be taking your own advice well,' he commented dryly.

The young boy was curled into her body, half draped across her with the blue cotton of her scrubs twisted in his small hands, as though he were holding onto her for his life. Whenever she shifted in her position, he would moan and wrap his small body more tightly around her, to the point that she had given up moving at all.

'He's young and scared and has no one to hold him,' she replied quietly, feeling the need to justify her actions but Francois just looked at her knowingly as she stroked the feverish dark head gently, sweeping the jet hair from Nabir's hot brow.

'We must take responsibility for the lives that we save, as well as those that we cannot,' he stated, leaning against the concrete wall.

Quinn looked down at the small dark body twisted against her own; she could feel his heartbeat against her just as she had that night, years before. Back then he had been faceless to her, just another beggar child in the darkness, but now?

Hazel eyes looked up.

'Why are you here so late, Francois?' she asked curiously.

He slid down against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched out before him.

'Because of you,' he replied simply as she moved the candle to the floor between them so that the glow of it lit his face.

Quinn raised an eyebrow.

By the warm glow of the candle, the lines of his face seemed deeper and it made him seem so much older. The arrogant UNICEF representative that she had fought with so often when she had first arrived in Cambodia was gone, and now he appeared softer and kinder than his younger counterpart.

'You're unhappy, Quinn,' he stated softly, and though she raised her chin a little higher at his words, she did not contest them. Her hand stilled against Nabir's soft hair and she settled back against the concrete. She had thrown herself into her work as soon as she had returned from New York, and as the months had passed, as the donations had started trickling in, at first slowly and then in greater amounts as Brittany's documentary swept around the globe, Quinn felt the weight of her responsibility grow exponentially. In such a corrupt system, it took an iron fist to keep control and ensure the overseas money ended up where it was intended rather than lining the pockets of each and every person who thought that they could make a quick profit.

'Have you ever regretted a decision you've made?' she asked him finally, meeting the grey eyes in the flickering light.

'You regret coming back?'

'No,' Quinn answered quickly, her mind was firm on that, but still she ached, 'I made promises here, and I will keep them,' she glanced down at the boy curled up against her body, 'I have responsibilities here... but I do regret leaving her,' she replied wistfully, running her thumb against the cool band about her finger. 'I miss her, Francois. I miss her so very, very much… It's selfish, I know, but maybe love is selfish, and I…I just…'

In the flicker of the candlelight she saw the concern reflected on his face. Nabir moaned again in his sleep, his legs kicking against her before he settled once more, her soothing hand upon his back.

'Then you should be with her,' he replied.

'It's not that simple…'

'Yes, it is Quinn,' he leant his head back against the cool of the wall, looking at the woman and child cuddled together on the orphanage standard thick floor mat. 'There is duty, and there is love… It is hard; impossibly hard; but you have to pick the one that you cannot live without.'

Her eyes fell to the boy whose heartbeat was fast against her skin and thought of Rachel, of the woman that she would forever hold to her. She looked to the ring on her finger, and knew that the choice had been made many, many years before.

* * *

><p><strong>New York. 2024. (Present).<strong>

'So… a cat on a hot tin roof?'

A gentle aroma filled the room; of sandalwood and lavender and the hint of mint from the pot of tea untouched before her. Rachel leant back, squinting her eyes towards the window through which the soft sunlight streamed. She breathed in and out, and sighed deeply.

'I haven't decided,' she replied, and it was the truth. 'On paper it looks great; a great play, a great director, a great co-star… but… it just doesn't feel right.'

She paused, interlacing her fingers as her thoughts meandered, back and forth.

'Somewhere, in the last few years I lost my way,' she smiled sadly at the blue sky outside, the beginnings of summertime in the air. 'I lost who I was for a while, and I think, just now, I am finally piecing myself together again.'

'Lost yourself,' Laura pressed, 'because of Quinn?'

'Yes,' Rachel sighed, 'and no.' She met her therapist's gentle eyes. 'Quinn left, and I let myself fall apart... I had meaningless relationships; I did stupid things. _I_ fell apart. I don't blame her for that, you understand… I know now why she did what she did.'

Laura steepled her fingers, carefully analysing the words.

'There is a big difference between knowing,' she pointed out, 'and forgiving...'

Rachel nodded slowly, picking up the cup of tea and holding it between her hands.

'I forgave her,' she replied softly, 'I forgave her because I couldn't be trapped by all that anger anymore. I love her… I always have, and I think that I always will.'

She absently twisted the plain band that fit snuggly around her finger, until she noticed the habit and stopped herself. The action, however, did not go unnoticed. Laura watched her; seeing both the feisty actress she had come to know so well and the woman that she was becoming. Rachel Berry, she knew, had undergone twists and turns through her life, but none more violent than those caused by Quinn Fabray.

'It would have been so easy to just love her,' Rachel continued, talking in that small voice that barely wavered. 'But I couldn't do that… It all happened so intensely, those last few months. It all happened so fast. I knew that I needed to find myself again, the _real_ Rachel Berry, the person that I am alone, before I could be with her… before I could be with anyone.'

Laura observed her carefully.

'It sounds as though you are finding out who you are again,' she commented finally, and the smile that curved Rachel's lips in return was warm.

The months had been hard, these months since Quinn had left for Cambodia, but it was very different feeling from the first time she had left. They hadn't left each other this time; not really. If anything, they had become stronger through the promise of a future, a future they were both ready to invest in.

'I want our love, our relationship, to be supportive…' her fingers went once more to the ring on her finger, feeling the cool of the metal and twisting it slowly, 'it's the only way for us to survive; I realise that now. We both need to make decisions on our own terms, for our own needs. I need to trust her to do that; and I need to trust myself…'

'Is this why the Broadway plans are on hold?' Laura pushed gently.

'Maybe…' Rachel took a sip of her tea, savouring the taste, 'she always made me feel as though I could do anything, that I was unstoppable. She believed in me more than I believed in myself.' She set the teacup down, once more upon the table, meeting Laura's eyes. 'The problem is… I'm not sure that I really want Broadway anymore. The spark… that spark faded, and now I don't know. The world is open for me to go and do what I please. There is a whole world out there… wider and deeper than the one that I have explored here.'

The words seemed to die on Rachel's tongue, as though her command of language had unexpectedly abandoned her. There were some concepts too abstract to put into words, or at least, too abstract to verbalise quickly. The distant expression that crossed her face was wistful and it was with a startling clarity that Laura started to understand.

'You're leaving?' she asked, unable to hide her surprise, for everything about Rachel had always screamed New York.

'Not forever,' Rachel smiled softly, looking down at her hands. 'I needed to know that it was what I wanted… what I wanted away from the heat of the moment; what I wanted for myself. And though the last few months have been hard… I recognise myself in the mirror again; I recognise the woman that I am, and the person that I want to be. And that,' she shook her head, '_that_ is a wonderful feeling.'

Laura's expression was twisted with surprise.

'You're sure that this is the right choice for you?' she asked.

'More than I've ever been sure of anything,' Rachel smiled softly to herself, a warm almost-shy smile. 'I'm doing it for me, not for her… I'm ready. I'm ready for the next stage of my life; and I can't wait for it to start.'

* * *

><p><strong>Phnom Penh, 2024. (Present).<strong>

The heat of the midday sun had already made Quinn irritable before the electricity to the hospital had once again been cut. Outside the concrete clinic building, people had gathered in large crowds, milling about as they tried to find shade in the ever diminishing purple shadows, and though there were many of them, the atmosphere was, for the most part, sleepy and subdued. Quiet expectation; of waiting, and waiting, and waiting…

Quinn had just finished with the latest patient in the never-ending queue, a partially blind leprotic man, when the commotion began. It sounded acutely like shouting. Her eyes met those of her clinic assistant, Seyha, who looked perplexed.

'What the hell…'

Quinn scraped back her chair to get to her feet, crossing the distance to the window in two strides.

'It's the boys,' Seyha stated certainly, by her side, her voice soft.

Quinn's nerves were on edge from the stifling heat, the humidity bringing a thin sheen of sweat to her skin, and she leant through the window, which was simply a square hole within the structure of the wall, with a frown. It barely took a second for her to recognise the cause of the commotion; the mass of limbs and small colourful shirts within the haze of dust drew her attention immediately.

'Oh forgodsake,' she groaned, rolling her eyes, 'that is _it_.'

Her temper, unusually, snapped.

'Wait here,' she instructed, taking the quicker option of climbing out through the window to reach the courtyard. One of the tuk-tuk drivers was already trying to intervene in the scuffle, shouting at the orphans in Khmer as a young surgeon came to help him attempt to pull the boys off each other. They were making little progress with the mess of tangled limbs.

'Break it up!' she shouted sharply at the group of boys who were busy pummelling each other into the dirt, her hands flying to her hips, 'break it up, _now!_'

Maybe it was the English language, or the furious tone of her voice, or maybe it was the sudden realisation that there were two men much bigger than themselves entering the fray, but the heated scrabble seemed to subside and within minutes four of the boys were being held up by their shirts, with another two lying on the ground.

She glared at them each on turn, recognising only three of them as orphans from the onsite orphanage, the others unfamiliar. She tried to rein in her anger, noting the scrapes and bruises already forming, the thin trickle of blood from one boy's nostril.

'You _do not_ fight here,' she spoke sharply, her gaze hard. Some of them may not understand the language but they had no difficulty in understanding the tone. 'This is a hospital; a place of healing and peace. You _do not fight here_…' She hissed through her teeth, the bright glare of the sunlight in her eyes. 'Do you understand me?'

The sullen nods were reluctant and Quinn felt a headache start to come on. It was already shaping up to be a pretty long and tedious day without the added issue of recalcitrant children.

'Good,' she folded her arms across her chest, staring at the boys that she didn't know, 'you three – get out of here... Do not cause trouble at my hospital again.'

As they ran off, she became acutely aware of the crowd that was curiously watching them, the weight of their eyes, of the way that her hair was curling in the heat, and the reddish dust that was sticking to her skin.

'And _you_ three…' she wrapped her hand around Samay's wrist to pull him to his feet, turning her gaze upon the children she knew, '…come with me.'

The boys exchanged uncertain looks as she led them away, Samay by her side and the other two trailing behind.

'They attacked Nabir, Americana…' the boy started and she rolled her eyes. Why was it always the same story no matter where in the world you were? Why were boys always fighting?

'I don't want to hear it,' she replied shaking her head to herself and pausing outside of the orphanage dormitories. 'You don't fight. You know that's the rule.'

She turned to them, allowing herself a hint of sympathy as she took in their dishevelled appearance. Crooking a finger at the youngest she crouched down before him when he obediently stepped forwards. Quinn pulled out a tissue from her pocket and started to dab at the blood trickling from his nose, her fingers gently probing the bony ridge to look for a break. Nabir's dark eyes watched her unquestioningly from beneath his dark hair, tilting his head back when her fingers guided him to do so.

'Why aren't you in school?'

The boys looked uncomfortably between themselves and Quinn let out a frustrated sigh. There was a school at the end of the road that was overrun with children of all ages, another local initiative, and the children from the orphanage, she knew, were meant to attend for at least a few hours daily. She looked at the two older boys seriously, watching them shift under the weight of her displeasure.

'Errr…' One of them started.

'Get to school, now.'

They didn't need to be told twice and ran off quickly, leaving her with the smallest of them. She ran a hand through his dark hair, pressing his nose between her forefinger and thumb to tamponade it.

'It'll stop bleeding in a minute, sweetheart,' she murmured, her tone finally softening. She was crouched at his level, frowning at the blood that had bloomed across his shirt. 'I'm serious about not fighting, Nabir,' she stated firmly, shaking her head and he lowered his dark gaze. 'It disappoints me because I know that you know better…'

'I'm sorry,' he murmured.

'I don't want to find you that you have been doing it again, are we clear?'

She sighed, finally releasing her hold and watching critically for any further bleeding. There was none. As she started to say more, there was a distant rumble of thunder and she glanced up to a sky that was thickening with clouds. Finally, she hoped, the dreadful heat may break.

As her attention returned to the boy in front of her a movement caught her eye; a movement that set her heart racing in her chest, for just across from her, beneath the sagging leaves of the banana tree where the children often played, stood a figure. Her dark hair was plaited loosely, a couple of gentle strands framing her face and at her neck the white cotton shirt was open, exposing the tan skin beneath. Somehow stylish and yet understated, the dark glasses hid her dark eyes. Quinn's mouth was suddenly dry.

She stared at her for a moment, this woman in the haze of heat that rose off the baking earth. She stood so still that Quinn was sure that she was a mirage, and she, herself, was afraid to move lest the image dissolve away.

'Quinn…'

But the sound of Rachel's voice was real enough and clear through the hammering of her heart.

'Oh my god,' she breathed out, a faint tremor running through her as she slowly stood. Rachel slipped the glasses from her eyes and for a moment they simply looked at each other, and Quinn felt the space between them fill with the warmth of her love, with all the times she had sought those dark eyes out amid the crowd.

She crossed the dry and dusty earth between them and all at once she had Rachel in her arms, the brunette's grip tightening about her, swinging her around, and around, and around. Her soft hair, so sweet and fragrant, tickled at Quinn's face, the soft and supple strength of her. Quinn closed her eyes, holding onto this moment; to the feeling of Rachel's heartbeat, so strong and steady, against her own.

Rachel smiled softly, holding her blonde closely to her.

'I needed to see you,' she whispered finally, and Quinn pulled back, concern crossing her features.

'Are you okay?' she asked anxiously, searching Rachel's expression for any hint of distress. 'Is everything alright? You're not hurt or…'

'I'm fine,' Rachel smiled warmly, reaching up to cup Quinn's face softly in her hands. 'I'm fine now.'

Quinn swallowed, totally at a loss, and somewhere within her, spreading outwards, she felt the burning heat of being with Rachel Berry; that glow that she felt from within, the longing that she had tried to deny for so long. Tears stung at her eyes.

'You're here…' she whispered finally.

At her words, Rachel pressed her lips against the blonde's cheek; first the right and then the left. Light kisses across the dusty skin. The world that surrounded them seemed unreal; the balmy heat and the sparse grass beneath her sandaled feet, the geckos that scurried across the white washed concrete of the buildings and the distant rumbling of thunder.

'I'm here.'

Rachel took a breath of the humid air, the unfamiliar smells of the foreign country mixing with the sweet scent of the blonde in her arms. She wasn't sure where the tears came from, but she could feel them well up in her eyes, her vision blurring. For everything that they had said to each other, for all the time that had passed, for the girl that she had fallen in love with and for the woman that she had lost… For all the stargazer lilies, and a name surrounded by gold stars. It had taken her a long time to find Quinn Fabray, but she had loved her from the start.

'You are mine,' Rachel whispered, her dark gaze as steady as her words, 'you are always going to be mine… and I am yours, Quinn. We belong to each other; we were always meant to belong to each other.'

Beneath her hands she could feel the blonde trembling and however wrong it may sound, however jealous and possessive, it was true. Rachel knew it was true.

'I belong right here…' Rachel's voice was low and even, 'by your side, and you belong beside me. I know you love me, Quinn, so the rest of it… the rest of it we will have to just… figure out.'

'We live on opposite sides of the world…' Quinn started until an index finger pressed against her lips.

'We will figure it out,' Rachel reiterated firmly.

'But how…?'

'Just trust me, baby,' Rachel replied, a small smile curving her lips, 'I have thought about this long and hard, over the last four months. I don't want to be without you… I don't want to be without you ever again, Quinn, and I'm not going to be.'

Something in her expression, in her words, struck the doctor squarely and she realised their implication.

'You're _staying?_' she asked incredulously, her bright eyes wide.

'Until you are ready to come back,' Rachel replied evenly, carefully watching the woman's features, 'a year; maybe two…'

'I can't ask you to do this, Rach.'

'You're not asking me,' Rachel replied with some exasperation, shaking her head, 'I'm _telling_ you. I want you, I need you and I am going to be with you…'

'Your career, Rachel...'

'Will be there when I get back.'

'Your life…'

The brunette raised her chin a fraction, fixing the doctor with a steady look and tightened her grip on her.

'You are going to have to accept that I have made this decision,' she stated finally, daring Quinn to argue with her. The blonde's cheeks were warm with tears, so many emotions crossing through those expressive eyes. 'It's what I want… it's not some spur-of-the-moment choice that I've made, baby. I've thought hard about it in the last four months. I want this… and I want you.'

She took a deep breath of the humid air, of the exotic smells and spices that drifted on the light breeze. It was frightening, and exhilarating, this whole new world that was opening up before her. Already the chaos of the colours and traffic and noises and language had felt almost overwhelming.

'This is madness,' Quinn whispered, hazel eyes shining in the sunlight.

Rachel pulled the doctor towards her, holding her tightly in her arms. She pressed her soft lips against the tearstained cheeks and closed her eyes.

Some part of her had always waited for Quinn, always waited, and in the fragrant warmth of the early afternoon, beneath the shade of the banana tree, she felt that she was coming home; that their life could finally begin, and the warm contentedness of that decision filled her up.

* * *

><p><strong>Phnom Penh, 2024. (Present). <strong>

'Chuy! Chuy! _Chuy!_'

The sounds of the children down below as they played in the darkness drifted up and mixed with the steady thud of the drums and the music. Nightfall had come, and the buzz of mosquitoes was in the air around them, the excitement of the festival below.

Rachel flicked the lighter again, watching the flame spring up and holding it to the end of the turquoise coil of moontiger. She glanced up and met Quinn's golden eyes before the flame died, the familiar smell of the incense already starting to curl up into the warm air.

'Is that old woman okay?' she asked as she came to settle down next to the blonde on the roof.

In the first weeks that she had been in Cambodia, Rachel had discovered this spot and decided that it was one of her favourite places in the city. The roof was flat and high enough that on a clear day she could see out across Phnom Penh for miles in every direction. The feeling it gave her was almost indescribable. It was the kind of feeling that starts in the pit of your belly and swells until you feel as though you may burst with it… it was the feeling that music sometimes gave her.

'She's fine,' Quinn replied, passing over a can of beer and shifting on the blanket so that they were shoulder to shoulder. 'We drained the abscess; gave her some antibiotics. Hopefully she will be out of hospital in the next few days...'

Rachel leant forwards, pecking her unsuspecting girlfriend on the lips. Quinn blinked, surprised.

'What was that for?' she laughed and Rachel grinned at her, leaning into the blonde's side.

'For you being you,' she replied lightly, and as she was about to continue, there was an abrupt crash at the edge of the roof. Quinn's brow furrowed as she looked over into the darkness, sitting up straighter.

'Sous-dey?' she called.

There was some scuffling at the building's edge and then a moment of silence.

'Americana?'

The small boy shuffled into sight, holding something indistinct within his hands. Rachel smiled gently at him, beckoning him over even as Quinn's frown deepened.

'Be careful of the edge, Nabir,' she warned.

He came towards them shyly, holding out the object in his hands.

'I… I got you a lantern,' he mumbled, and Rachel carefully took the delicate paper structure from his hands, looking at it closely in the candlelight.

'Thank you, Nabir,' she smiled warmly at the timid child. 'That's very kind.'

While Quinn assured her that he was usually far from quiet, for some reason, since her arrival, he seemed reserved and hesitant whenever he was near her, and trying to coax him out of his shell was proving to be a difficult task. His words seemed to just dry up whenever she was around.

To break the awkward moment, Quinn looped an arm around him and pulled him down into her lap, tickling him lightly until he was giggling and trying to wiggle away from her. She found it charming how fixated Nabir had become on trying to win Rachel's approval, particularly as the boy clearly had no idea what to say to her. She ran a hand through his dark hair, settling him against her.

'Why don't you tell Rachel about the festival?' she suggested softly in his ear, 'I'm sure she'd like to hear about it…'

The boy looked at her uncertainly and then turned his attention back to the brunette, chewing on his lip.

'It's the Children's Festival,' he said quietly, looking at her shyly. 'It comes from Vietnam. Because children are pure, and innocent, and much more sacred than grown-ups…'

'You think so?' Quinn hummed.

'Yup,' he nodded certainly, 'we celebrate 'cause in old times there was a great, great hero called Yi who was really good at shooting and he had a beautiful wife called Chang...'

Rachel smiled encouragingly at him, twisting the ring on her finger as she listened to his story.

'And one day, ten suns rose in the morning – and the whole of the earth would have burnt – but the hero shot the suns down – except the one that we have now,' Nabir continued, his voice growing with strength with each word that he spoke, 'and because the gods were so impressed by Yi, they gave him the potion of im-imm-im…'

'Immortality,' Quinn supplied quietly.

'Yup,' he nodded decisively, 'but he loved his wife so much that he didn't want to ever leave her – so he didn't drink it – he gave it to his wife instead to keep safe.'

Rachel felt Quinn's hand settle over hers, and she glanced up to the woman's face, with the flickering of the candles and the pale light of the full moon above. She squeezed her fingers and saw the curve of a smile at the corners of the woman's full lips.

'But Yi had a nasty student who wanted the potion – and when Yi went hunting the student broke in and tried to force Yi's wife to give him the potion,' Nabir's words were now tumbling over each other at a great rate. 'But she wouldn't – and she drank it rather than give it to him – and then she flew into the sky, and went to the moon because she loved Yi so much she wanted to stay near him, but could not stay on Earth. And he loved her so much that he made big sacrifices and offerings to her. And that's why we light the lanterns – to show her the way back to him, when she is allowed to come back – we show her the way back home.'

He looked at her expectantly after his story was finished, his dark eyes even darker in the night-time.

'Poor Yi,' she said empathetically.

'Poor Yi's wife,' he replied, 'I bet that she didn't know anybody on the moon.'

'And are those lanterns over there?' Rachel asked, pointing out to the horizon where small glowing lights seemed to be rising slowly into the dark sky.

'Yup,' he pushed himself energetically forwards from Quinn's lap to look closer, but she hooked him by the collar of his shirt pulling him back slightly.

'Not too close to the edge,' she repeated her earlier warning more firmly.

'They are starting to light them in the courtyard,' he stated excitedly, and sure enough, the small glowing lanterns were rising up through the air and into the night. As the first few came to pass, Rachel found herself holding her breath, for the sight of Cambodia under moonlight, of the glowing lanterns rising in the sky… she squeezed Quinn's hand and felt the woman's fingers tighten around hers in response.

'Then we should light ours, shouldn't we?' Rachel asked him, carefully picking up the lantern and setting it between them.

'It's a red one,' Quinn murmured to herself as Nabir and Rachel fiddled with the paper and, once again, Rachel flicked the lighter. Quinn watched them; the woman that she loved, and the child who was slowly but surely burrowing into her heart. Whenever she looked up to the sky at night, especially when it was clear like this, she found herself struck for a moment, thinking of her own mother, the woman that she had never really known or understood. Of the circle of events, of children and their parents, of love and innocence and protectiveness. The mistakes that had run through her life, like fault lines...

'Americana,' Nabir's scolding tone snapped her out of her thoughts and she looked at him questioningly, 'you have to hold it too...'

Rachel smirked at her, dark eyes twinkling, and leaning forwards, Quinn reached out her hand to help support the lantern. Gently, and slowly, it lifted up into the air, a glowing red orb against the sky. It faltered once, then gained lift. Rachel watched it go, watched it until it was amongst the others, as they rose high and passed across the pale surface of the moon. That same feeling of warmth hadn't left her; but she swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, thinking of all that had passed, of all the people who had died. But then the moment of nostalgia was gone, and she settled back, leaning into Quinn's arms, the small boy settling between them.

She kissed the blonde on the cheek before resting her head upon the woman's shoulder.

'So, what does the red mean?' she asked softly, having caught the earlier words. Her eyes settled upon the drifting lanterns rising through the night.

She could feel Quinn smile against her hair.

'Good luck,' the blonde replied quietly, 'hope.'

Nabir twisted between them, curling towards Rachel's body, and hesitantly she rested a hand against his back, feeling the warmth of his skin, the small protuberances of his spine. Quinn pressed a kiss against her hair.

For the first time in a long, long time, the future, to Rachel, seemed infinite.

She took a deep breath, savouring the moment.

Infinite, and beautiful, and hopeful... and just beyond the horizon.

Maybe later, when it was she and Quinn alone, she would hold out her hand to the woman she loved and they would dance together on the roof, beneath the pale moon and the endless star-spotted sky, but for now she was content to rest in Quinn's arms, sharing this moment as they both looked ahead to everything that awaited them.

The end

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading - it has been a long journey, but we have finally reached the end! Hope you enjoyed. Thanks again. <strong>


End file.
